


Beyond the Hairpin Turn

by kermiethefrog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Bottom Sam Winchester, First Time, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Runaway!Sam, Top Dean Winchester, Trucker!Dean - Freeform, Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, What is the opposite of a slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-25 19:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16203701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermiethefrog/pseuds/kermiethefrog
Summary: A trucker with a savior complex and a runaway with an attitude problem striking out across America. Dean hadn’t planned on helping a kid who turned tricks to get away from his hometown, but Sam didn’t exactly make it easy for him to drive away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Wincest Big Bang](http://wincestbigbang.tumblr.com/). My eternal gratitude to Jen for her beta work.
> 
> [Art by knowmefirst.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16218050)

———

Dean woke with a snort and a sharp inhale, the blurred sound of Lisa’s quiet laughter fading into insistent taps on his window. He roused with a groan, rubbing a hand down his exhaustion-numb face before throwing his legs over the side of the bunk. The knocks persisted, slightly louder, and he leaned across the driver’s seat, irritation rising to his throat as he cracked open the door.

“What the hell do you want?” he shot out, voice worn and rough with sleep and annoyance.

It was a kid who couldn’t have been much older than thirteen, not with his scrawny frame and soft-curved jaw. A once-over revealed ratty jeans, a thin t-shirt, and a too-big flannel—he was trying hard not to show the shiver against the autumn night air. A runaway, most likely, his shaggy bangs hiding wide eyes; he had a backpack slung over his shoulder and nothing else. Dean grit his teeth, clenching his molars together as he let out a long sigh. He got them, sometimes, all truckers did at some point. They were supposed to report them to the local police, but Dean knew that it never did any good if the kid fled before the cops came.

“Look, kid—” he started and watched as the boy’s hand white-knuckled his backpack strap, breath punching out of him as if Dean strangled it out.

“If you take me to the nearest bus station, I’ll suck your dick for $20,” the kid blurted out, words rushed and just on the outside edge of panicked. 

Lot lizard. Dean’s shoulders squared, eyes narrowing; he’d come across his fair share of them, too. The answer was always the same on his tongue. None of them were as young as the kid standing before him, but Dean figured most of them must’ve started just as terrified and breathless. It twinged some deep ache in his chest, plucking sympathy with a snap, and he smothered the sensation in his chest—it was more trouble than it was worth, it always was.

“Nah,” Dean responded. The kid looked crestfallen, fingers scrambling to hold onto the edge of the door before Dean could close it. “Kid, let go,” he snapped, but the boy held on tighter.

“$10, then, or, or—please, if you can just drop me off, I’ll—you don’t even have to give me any money, I’ll just get you off with my hand,” he bargained. 

Dean clicked his teeth and sighed again, the exhale dragged out of his rattling chest. “Get yourself to a police station, kid. Don’t go ‘round offering handjobs to truckers,” he offered instead. The kid stared at him for a moment, one last desperate, fleeting look, and Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m not interested in jailbait, so go home and apologize to your daddy for leaving in the first place,” he bit out.

The change in the kid was immediate; his brows furrowed, eyes growing fox-narrow and furious, small shoulders drawing together tensely. “Fuck you!” the kid shouted before slamming the door. Dean just barely ducked backward in time to avoid getting rammed in the face with his window; anger shot up his throat, and he swung his door open, dropping down onto the gravel.

“Hey, you almost fucking hit me,” Dean yelled out after the quickly retreating body. The kid threw him a scathing glare over his shoulder, and Dean took after him, breath short in his lungs. It was only a matter of time before he caught up, his hand quick as it wrapped around the boy’s arm. “Listen up, you little shit—”

“Something wrong?”

Dean and the kid turned at the same time; it was another trucker, big guy, about as tall as Dean and twice his size. Dean’s shoulders tensed, and the boy wrenched his arm out of the grip, stumbling away to stand closer to the other man. This was Dean’s fucking luck, wasn’t it? Runaway, lot lizard—whatever the kid was, Dean knew he was going to be more fucking trouble than he wanted to deal with.

“That kid has a fucking attitude problem,” Dean shot out, stabbing a finger at the teen. He dragged his hand down his jaw, trying to calm the rage ramping in his ribcage, and he huffed out a breath. “He needs his ass dragged to the fucking sheriff’s station.”

The trucker took a step forward, hand pressing against Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s jaw clenched and he flinched back, fists tight at his sides. It wasn’t going to do him any favors to get into a fight, not with everything he’d been booked for before. He needed a smoke or a drink. Maybe both.

“I’ll take good care of him,” the man said. 

The anger that had been focused on the bratty little kid sharply turned at the sight of the smug look he was hit with, disgust crawling up his chest. This was wrong, and Dean knew it—if he walked away, this kid would end up turned out like all the rest of them that worked the stops. Worse, he could end up dead. Dean would never know for certain because this kind of shit never made it to the news, but he knew that it was an inevitability, either road.

He took a step back, taking in a deep breath and turning away. It wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t his problem—he couldn’t afford it to be. He had an ex-girlfriend he was trying to win back and a job that overlooked his priors and his old man giving him shit back home. He couldn’t afford to risk what little ties he had.

“Think I deserve a little something for saving you, huh, sweetheart?” The man asked behind him, and Dean chanced a look over his shoulder, anger still simmering under his skin. It wasn’t the meaty fingers digging into a bowed neck, it wasn’t the sweaty-faced predatory smirk; in the end, what broke Dean’s resolve was the shock of young, frozen fear on the kid’s face.

Dean’s knuckles burned where they collided full-force with the trucker’s jaw.

———

The semi had been rumbling down the road for going on ten minutes before Dean felt like he could breathe again.

His knuckles ached. He hadn’t punched anyone that hard in years; he hadn’t really expected to knock the guy on his ass, but at least it made for an easy escape. 

Dean glanced at the kid in the passenger seat, whose knees were brought up to his chest as he stared out the window. He hadn’t even thought it through then, just called out for the boy to get into the truck if he wanted a ride; Dean felt a growing realization in his tightening stomach that the kid should’ve refused if he had any goddamn sense. Too quick to trust, maybe, or else more used to one kind of violence than the other. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a sudden headache coming on. This was going to bite him in the ass later.

“Are you taking me to the bus station?” the kid asked suddenly, turning to look at him. 

Dean’s fingers swept across his chin. “No. I’m taking you to the police station like I said I would,” he said back evenly.

Small fingers wrapped around his forearm, shocking him into turning to the teen. He flinched away, but the grip held strong, fingertips digging into his muscle. “Please—you can’t. I can’t go back home, I’m serious.”

Dean furrowed his brows, tongue feeling thick in his mouth; the panic was so visceral in the boy that Dean could feel it smothering his own throat. “Kid—” he started.

“It’s Sam,” the kid cut in. There was an edge to it, but curled with something softer, like a quiet plea. “My name is Sam, don’t—call me kid.”

Dean breathed out a ragged sigh. “Alright, _Sam_. Listen, dude, you’re obviously a minor. You’re, what, like, thirteen?”

“I’m fifteen,” Sam shot back, glaring petulantly. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine, point still stands. You can’t be out on the road by yourself. It’s dangerous.”

Sam stared at him for a moment; Dean could feel the weight of it, catching glimpses with side glances. Then, Sam’s fingers dipped under his shirt, lifting the hem up high. At the shot of exposed skin, Dean averted his eyes, hand coming up as a shield between them. 

“Whoa, hey, Sam, what the hell did I say—”

“This is why I can’t go home,” Sam said. His voice sounded young, breaking at the edges, warbly with barely restrained rage—when Dean turned to look, there were yellowing bruises, old and ugly, spread wide across his chest. Scarred welts of white stripes across his ribs, smaller pockmarks that were cigarette butt sized over his collarbone. The worst of them dipped under his waistband; clear, distinct marks in the shape of large fingers over his hip, brutally visible as they neared each roadside street light. Sam’s fingers were trembling where they held onto his shirt, and Dean reached over, hand firm and mouth a thin line as he dragged Sam’s shirt back down.

“They can help you get away from whoever is hurting you,” Dean argued, even as all the previous irritation and anger left him. He knew it sounded weak coming from him—he never had the best experiences with law enforcement, but he had to hope that there was something awaiting Sam that was better than hopping buses endlessly. 

Sam slumped in the seat, feet coming up to rest on the dash. Dean schooled a scowl back into a neutral purse, telling himself the kid had a right to be upset. “My dad’s the police chief,” Sam said after a long moment. “This isn’t my first time running away. They all call him and then I’m stuck back where I started.”

Well, shit. This was exactly the kind of Lifetime story that Dean didn’t want to get involved in. Dean snuck another side glance, and the sympathy dam broke open, flooding his lungs at the sight of Sam’s curved-in shoulders, his watery lashline, the determination not to cry set in his expression. His fingers were clutching the denim of his jeans like a lifeline; a cry for help that he’d thrown at Dean, one that was his choice to ignore.

Dean pulled off to the side of the road, and Sam sat up straight, anxiety snapping in his spine.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, suspicious, hand already on the door handle. 

Dean typed into his GPS, letting out a scoff. “I’m looking for the nearest bus station,” he answered, and Sam’s eyes went wide and disbelieving. Dean lifted his focus and raised his eyebrows at the look. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

He had to admit, the kid was pretty cute when he smiled.

———

Nearest decent bus station was a thirty-minute drive and Sam napped most of it, body curved into the door. He had spent a few minutes trying to get comfortable on his backpack before Dean had reached behind him and grabbed his pillow; with the way he was smushed into it, Sam’s hair looked wild, curling at the nape of his neck. The kid didn’t snore, really, just let out little huffing breaths—like Lisa’s baby did, like Sam didn’t know how to sleep deeply.

Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he always stayed on alert, just in case. Dean thought about the trucker at his last stop and those greasy fingers running over Sam’s neck; his knuckles ached as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Some people never got breaks. Some people were always facing monsters with nothing but one hell of a will to survive.

Sam stirred when the engine came to a rumbling stop, face turning into the pillow to bury in a little longer before Dean reached over and gently shook his arm. Sam shot up, flinching away into the truck door as far as he could press; Dean’s throat tightened at the wide, terrified eyes that greeted him. 

“Easy, tiger, it’s just me,” he soothed out, holding his hands up like he was trying to calm a wild animal. Sam took in shallow, stuttering breaths before he nodded, blinking quickly as recognition softened his tense frame. “We’re here. Doesn’t look like it’s open, so don’t expect anything setting out for a few hours. Motel’s right next door, though.”

Sam nodded again, running his hands down his face to ease away exhaustion; Dean wondered when he last had a decent night’s sleep. “Thanks,” he croaked out, gathering the backpack that had fallen onto the floor during his nap. 

Dean’s hand reached out, hovering over Sam’s shoulder before he remembered the violent reaction the last time he’d touched Sam. He cleared his throat, letting his hand drop to the gear shift. “You, uh, got someplace you’re heading to, right? You aren’t just gonna wander around?” he said slowly, trying to restrain the concern that felt so thick in his lungs.

Sam froze for a brief moment—just long enough for Dean to notice—before he casually sat back up, avoiding Dean’s eyes carefully. “I—have an aunt, in California. That’s where I’m headed,” Sam answered, and Dean’s jaw ticked as he looked over Sam’s profile, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth. The kid must’ve caught on, because he turned, holding Dean’s gaze unblinkingly. “You don’t have to worry, I have someplace to go,” he assured, before slipping in a teasing smile, “but thanks, mom.”

“How are you planning on coming up with the funds to get there?” Dean pressed, brows furrowed.

Sam shrugged, smile fading. Dean could tell he was trying for nonchalant, but he could see shame and embarrassment biting at the inside of his cheek. “You’re not the first guy I’ve ever tried to hook. To your credit, not a lot of guys pass up,” he said. 

“Okay, Sam,” Dean started; he locked the doors, and Sam let out a noise of protest, “y’know I can’t let you do that, right? I can’t let you go out there and put yourself at risk like that.”

“What, are you going to fund a bus ticket there or something?” Sam scoffed, unlocking the door. Before he could open it, Dean locked it again, and Sam let out a louder huff of protest.

Dean shifted in the seat, dragging a hand down his face as he turned to face Sam fully. “Listen, I’m heading to Arizona. If you want, you can catch a ride with me, and then you can find your way to your aunt, or she can pick you up, or whatever,” he offered. Sam looked at him warily, and Dean let out a sigh. “Look, I’m just trying to clear my conscience of this, don’t look so suspicious. It’s your choice, I just want you to have an option that doesn’t end with you being sold off to some guy halfway across the country.”

Sam watched him a moment longer before he held out a hand, palm upwards and flat. Dean stared down at it before Sam shoved it closer to Dean’s face. “Driver’s license,” Sam demanded, and Dean stared at him for a moment longer before pulling out his wallet. He was hesitant and guarded as he handed the card over, and Sam flipped it between his fingers, digging into his pocket. When he pulled out his phone, Dean got with the program—he waited as Sam snapped a photo of his license, slipping it back into his wallet when it was returned. “I’m sending that to my friend in case you murder me, okay? So don’t even think about it,” Sam threatened.

“Yeah, I wasn’t planning on killing you until you trusted me, anyway,” Dean deadpanned to Sam’s mortified shock-dropped expression. He flashed Sam a grin, starting the truck and putting it into reverse, and Sam scowled back, reaching out to punch his arm. Dean ducked away from it, his own hand coming out to shove Sam’s shoulder. “Hey, I’m driving! No horsing around or I’m dropping you off at the next cowtown I find.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna leave a defenseless kid like me out to the wolves, _Dean Winchester_ ,” Sam bit out, and Dean shrugged his shoulder easily.

“Thought you weren’t a kid, _Sammy_ ,” Dean shot back, just to win him another scowl. “What else did you glean from my I.D., huh?”

Sam leaned back into his seat and hummed. “You’re from Kansas, you’re twenty-two years old—”

“Twenty-three,” Dean cut in pointedly.

“And you have a small dick,” Sam finished. Dean raised an eyebrow, disbelieving and stunned. Sam shrugged. “You lied on your height. There’s no way you’re six-two. My dad’s six-two, and he’s way taller than you. So you have to be compensating for something.”

Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes and giving Sam a smug smile, one that erased the smirk on the kid’s face. “I promise you, sweetheart—I ain’t lying about my height, and I have nothing to compensate for.”

———

The first thing Dean did when he got into the motel room was pull out the tape measure he kept in the truck to prove his height.

“Juuuust under,” Sam said, tilting forward with a hand against the wall as he stood on a chair to get a good, up-close look.

Dean scowled and straightened his back as much as he could; it must’ve done the trick, because Sam let out an approving hum and hopped off the chair, letting the tape measure snap back into its tight roll. Dean held out his hand and Sam slapped the tool into it, smiling all-too-innocently.

“Now to measure below the belt, Dean,” he chirped out, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels.

Dean rolled his eyes, giving Sam a mirthless grin. “Ha, ha. Very funny, kid. Grab a jacket,” he instructed, throwing the tape measure onto his duffel and patting down his pockets to double-check if he had his wallet and keys; his eyes were drawn to the motel key on the table, and he snatched it up before he forgot. He normally never sprung for a room, not unless he had the insatiable desire to sleep in a bed and the motel advertised a mattress with Magic Fingers, but he only had the single bunk in the truck and he wasn’t keen on sharing it with Sam. 

Not that Dean thought the kid would feel him up in his sleep, but hey, better safe than sorry, right?

Sam pushed onto his forearms from where he’d just collapsed onto the mattress, throwing Dean a dirty, wary look. “Why?” he asked, even as he shuffled onto his feet.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I dunno about you, but I’m fucking starving,” he answered, which prompted Sam to perk up, eyes brighter. He pulled on his backpack and started to push past Dean, but Dean hooked a finger in the handle of Sam’s bag and dragged him back a step. “Whoa, hold on, buddy. It’s cold outside and we’re walking, put on a jacket.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You think I wouldn’t already be wearing it if I had one?” he shot back, trying to sound nonchalant; the way his shoulders curved in on themselves told a different story. 

A sigh dragged out of Dean’s lungs, and he stepped to his bed—closer to the door because Dean figured if Sam tried to bounce, he’d have a harder time of it if he had to creep past Dean’s bed—to dig through his duffel. He pulled out one of the haphazardly rolled jackets, giving it a sniff; it was military-green and most definitely too-big on the kid, but at least it was clean. There was no pomp or ceremony to offering it, just the bulky drape of it over Sam’s shoulders.

“It’s enormous,” Sam complained as he pulled his arms through the sleeves, re-adjusting his backpack, and Dean gave him a look.

“Yeah, I’m bigger than you, stupid,” he shot back, and Sam’s pout soured into a little purse. It made Dean want to laugh, even as he bit it back. Sam really was a cute kid. “Now let’s go, or you’re going to be eating Doritos out of the vending machine for dinner.”

No matter how much Sam complained about it, Dean could see the flush that pooled pink through his cheeks and up his ears; as Dean turned to leave, he thought he saw a flash of a barely-bitten smile lilting Sam’s lips upwards.

The diner was down the block from the motel; Dean had seen it driving in, always enticed by a neon _Open_ sign and the smell of pancakes in the air. It claimed to have the best pecan pie in the tristate area, and, well, Dean couldn’t turn down the chance to find out if that was true. Sam complained about Dean’s long legs and fast pace—Dean was starting to realize that Sam liked to complain about anything he could—but what was once pouty, breathless jabs soon became long, keening whines when Dean quickened his stride.

He was laughing by the time Sam got a hand twisted in the back of his jacket, slowing to allow the kid a chance to catch his breath. Sam weakly punched his arm a few times before wrapping his fingers around Dean’s forearm, refusing to let go.

“I won’t run away anymore, Sammy, _promise_ ,” Dean teased, but Sam’s fingers just tightened their grip, the kid leaning into his side.

“I don’t trust you,” he pouted, and Dean let out a long peal of laughter.

———

“For two?” A female voice called out to them as they stood by the diner’s entrance waiting to be seated.

Dean nodded, peering around the diner—it was mostly empty, and the few patrons that were there were the same sort of trucker breed. He could still feel Sam’s fingers—just the forefinger and thumb now—pinching the cuff of his jacket sleeve. It fell away when Sam shuffled at the sight of the waitress's easy-going smile.

“You and your brother want a counter seat or a booth?”

Dean turned to Sam expectantly; he wasn’t disappointed when he was greeted with the kid’s wrinkled nose, already opening his mouth in protest. Dean cut him off before he could respond, clapping a hand down on Sam’s shoulder and grinning. “Booth’ll be great, right, _little brother_?” he teased. Sam shoved his arm off with a soft huff of exasperation, and Dean’s grin widened.

They were led through the aisle; Dean hovered close to Sam’s back, earning him a just-hard-enough jab to his ribcage that had him doubling over into the kid’s shoulder before he slid into one side of the booth.

Sam slid into the other and fidgeted in his seat, swinging his legs as he looked over the menu. Dean watched the way he nervously fingered through the pages, teeth biting down on his lower lip; he dropped his gaze when Sam glanced up at him, furtively catching a glimpse of Sam pulling out his wallet to look through it under the table.

Dean had been there, more than once. He remembered going into a place wanting a burger and ordering a coffee and a side of fries because it was the only thing he could scrounge up enough cash for. The desperation on Sam’s face when he’d first approached Dean told enough of a story—there was no way a kid on the run like him had more than five dollars to his name. 

It twinged something nostalgic and sympathetic in his chest, plucking at his heartstrings and making them whine. 

The waitress— _Dawn_ , her name tag stated—made her way back to the table, perching a hand on her hip as she held up her order notepad.

“You boys ready?” she asked. Her voice came out with a little breath, a little scratch; it reminded him of Lisa.

“I’ll get a bacon cheeseburger, extra onions,” Dean answered, eyes flicking down to the menu and back up as he gave Dawn a slow smile. She smiled back, politeness melting away into something coy.

“Fries?”

Dean nodded, leaning back against the booth seat and tilting his head up at her. “It’s like you know me already. And a beer, thanks.”

The waitress turned to Sam, and the kid sat up straighter, clearing his throat. “Um, I’ll—” he started, before he was swiftly interrupted.

“He’ll have a grilled cheese sandwich, curly fries, and a—what, lemonade? Coke?” Dean asked, pointing a finger at Sam. Sam gaped in response.

“Dean, I—I can’t—”

“Let’s go with Coke. Thanks,” Dean said, flashing Dawn another easy-going smile as he held out the menus for her to take. 

Sam waited until she left before he leaned forward, voice lowered to a hush. “I don’t have enough cash for that,” he rushed out, cheeks pink, flushed with embarrassment. 

Dean shrugged his shoulders, leaning back into the booth and giving the diner a good look around. Dawn—prettiest girl in the diner, by leaps and bounds—began serving a table of four, and when she turned, she caught his stare and gave him a bitten-back smile, ducking her eyes away. Dean smirked to himself, smugly satisfied. He could probably ask her for something quick and sweet in the back, then take some pie for the road. 

“Dean!” Sam huffed out, and Dean turned back to Sam. The kid had his brows furrowed, pout out on full force, and Dean rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh.

“It’s fine, Sam, honestly. What kind of an _older brother_ would I be if I let you starve?”

“I’ll pay you back,” Sam said immediately. Dean raised his eyebrows, and Sam deepened his frown in response. “I’m serious, Dean. I don’t—I don’t want you to feel like I’m—”

“Draining me dry?” Dean teased, and Sam huffed out a petulant breath.

“ _Taking advantage of you_ ,” the kid said instead, shoulders slumping as he sulked. 

Dean’s eyebrows rose in open surprise. He blinked, heavy and disbelieving, as Sam flushed further, fingers nervously picking at the borrowed jacket. “Hey, kiddo,” Dean started, and Sam’s eyes flicked up briefly before returning to his lap, “I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t want to, y’know? You aren’t the first hitchhiker I’ve ever helped.”

Sam peered up through his bangs. It was endearing as hell, and Dean’s lips tugged up into an easy, warm smile. “You aren’t _that special_ , y’know,” he teased, and Sam’s lips pursed, front teeth peeking out to bite down a smile.

Dean received a kick to the shin under the table, and it just made him grin wider.

It wasn’t long before they received their food, and most of the time waiting was spent on an increasingly heated discussion on what constituted _good music_ —Dean had been horrified to hear that Sam had never heard an entire Led Zeppelin album all the way through and was determined to make the rest of their road trip background music a veritable _Best Of_ that utilized the mixed tapes stuffed in the glove compartment. Sam looked overwhelmingly relieved when the food arrived, and when Dean opened his mouth to continue his point, Sam had slid his pickle into Dean’s mouth and told him to stuff it.

“Suggestive,” Dean said around the mouthful, and Sam let out a groan, rolling his eyes.

“You’re so _stupid_ ,” Sam shot back, but Dean could see the beginning of a smile that the kid was trying to hide as he took a long gulp of his Coke.

There was an ease that settled in Dean’s soul when he reached over and stole fries from Sam’s plate. He grew up an only child—Sam had, too, from what he’d revealed on their diner date so far. But he figured this was what it must feel like to have a sibling: the easy-going teasing, the playful banter, the light-hearted blows. They fell into a rhythm, and Sam’s guarded, tensed shoulders melted into teenage petulance, his expression growing less careful and opening up into something warm. 

It made Dean’s chest grow tight, a glowing light dawning in the center of it, and he smiled into the mouthful of stolen goods. Sam’s eyes flicked up, mouth turning down into a scowl and ready to protest before he caught the look on Dean’s face. “Why’re you looking at me like that?” he asked, shifting in his seat and flushing. Dean reached out to grab another fry, and Sam’s fingers came down on the back of his hand with a sharp smack.

“Lookin’ at you like what?” Dean shot back, whipping his hand back to shake off the wound.

“I don’t know,” Sam mumbled, “like a weirdo.” 

“You’re a weirdo,” Dean answered. He felt himself smiling again, a huffed-out burst of laughter pushing past his lips as he watched Sam munch his way down on a curly fry. Sam looked back at him curiously for another few seconds, and Dean raised his eyebrows in challenge.

He received another kick to his shin. If Dawn ever gave off the impression that she was interested in a quickie, Dean didn’t notice for the rest of the meal.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean woke with a snort at the sound of his phone alarm going off.

He let out a groan, rubbing his palms down his sleep-numb face; he muffled his next groan into the pillow in defiance of whatever God was out there making him get out of bed. There was never a night restful enough to make Dean feel completely human whenever he was on a job—those nights of sleep were reserved for the memory foam mattress that he left behind in Dad’s renovated-garage studio. Dean hummed to himself as he thought about it. God, it’d be nice to be there right about then.

“Rise ‘n shine, Sammy,” Dean called, voice worn and mouth dry. He cleared his throat and pushed up off the mattress, looking over to the other bed when he received no response. “Hey, we gotta—shit.”

The bed was empty. 

Panic flickered through Dean first. He scrambled out of bed and slammed the bathroom door open, eyes wide and worried; empty, too. Not in his bed, not in the bathroom—concern coiled tight in Dean’s stomach, a hand dragging through his hair to calm himself down. What if Sam was hurt? What if he got himself into trouble? What if—

“It’s fine,” Dean told himself. It was fine. He should have expected this, really; should have expected the kid would bolt. That was a good thing, right? Now he didn’t have to worry about Sam anymore. The kid was out of his hands officially. 

Dean’s eyes fell on his wallet on the table, and suspicion flickered through him, cutting through the unsettled rolling in his stomach. He looked through his cards, and the cash he kept on hand—but it was all there. Everything was there. 

Everything but Sam.

Huh. He was a little disappointed.

He wasn’t sure why. Dean knew it was naive of him to believe that last night changed anything about their situations; it was just a few jokes, some brotherly ribbing. That’s all—no declarations of some kind of unbreakable bond linking their souls together or any of that chick flick crap that Lisa loved.

The heels of his palms pressed against his eyelids. This was why he and Lisa broke up in the first place. Not the refusal to admit to the interests they shared that wasn’t John Winchester-approved (though they’d fought about that, too, go figure), but his aversion to _feeling_. 

But it was fine, right? If Sam wanted to leave—not just leave, but leave in a way that left no trace of himself, where Dean didn’t even have anything to remember him by or hold onto—leave without so much as a _goodbye_ —then Dean wasn’t going to fucking sit around and mope about it. He didn’t _know_ Sam. There was no reason for him to care.

He slammed his knuckles into the table, the wood rattling dangerously under his hand. It was stupid. It was stupid how ten hours could influence whatever weakness he held in his heart. He could hear Lisa’s voice ringing out: _you have serious abandonment issues, Dean, and there are times when I feel like you’d rather run than potentially lose someone again_ —

The doorknob rattled, and Sam was humming to himself as he entered.

Relief washed over Dean so intensely that he swayed on his feet for a second; it was chased by trigger-quick anger, crawling up his chest and licking at the back of his tongue. 

“Where the hell were you?!” 

He rushed forward and Sam turned wide-eyed, shoulders curling in as he winced and pressed flat against the door, cheek turned in fearful anticipation. 

“I—I’m sorry, I just—I got—I got us breakfast, please don’t be mad, I’m sorry,” Sam stammered out, voice trembling, hands shaking as he held up the McDonald’s bag, and Dean froze at the sight, copper-cold dread flooding his stomach. He took in three deep breaths, working through the panic to cling to the budding voice of reason in his head.

 _He wasn’t leaving_ , Dean thought to himself, swallowing thickly, _he just went to get breakfast. It’s fine. You’re fine, Dean, pull it together._

His mind went back to the sight of Sam’s bruises, the scars that littered his small chest. Acting the way he did, lashing out like that thoughtlessly—how could he be so stupid?

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I’m not mad, Sam, I was just worried,” Dean choked out, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair. He drew in a few more deep breaths before his palm dragged down his cheek, rough where his stubble was growing in. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

It took Sam a few moments to calm his breathing before he could extract himself from the door. Dean felt guilt sit heavy in his stomach, and he shoved it down patiently as he waited for Sam’s fingers to loosen where they were white-knuckling the McDonald’s bag.

“It’s okay,” Sam forced out with a smile. It wasn’t. It was far from okay, with what Dean knew about Sam—hell, even the shit he went through with his own dad didn’t compare with what Sam had already endured. Never-healing wounds, it felt like, and that was when it was a few sloppy punches and some shit thrown around in a drunken stupor by John Winchester. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for the kid.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said again. He saw Sam’s shoulders drop, loosening from the tension in the moments prior, and Dean pressed his own palm against his heart. “I don’t know, I thought you left, and I was—just being irrational.”

“Growing fond or something?” Sam teased, watery-eyed and wavering. 

Dean could see it in him, the way he was forcing himself, curbing the fear in him and putting on a brave face; it made Dean’s throat close up. He took in another deep breath. “Or something,” Dean responded. He offered a smile, and something painful twisted in him at the small one Sam gave back.

There was a moment of awkward tension, a quiet pause where Dean stared at his hands and wondered what to do. Should he offer to get him to a bus station? Tell him _sorry for my baggage that I didn’t mean for you to deal with, I hope you find someone to help you that’s not going to freak out when you’re not within eyesight_? 

Luckily, Sam broke the silence by holding up the fast food bag. “Hungry?” he asked, voice sounding smoother, easier—when Dean looked up, the smile on his face felt a little more genuine and hopeful.

“Starving,” Dean answered. He let Sam’s brightening smile settle the anxiety that swarmed his lower stomach and breathed a little easier.

Dean was halfway through with his McGriddle, sandwich held tight between his teeth as he pulled his outfit of the day out of his duffel, when Sam dropped a ten and a few ones onto the bed. Dean looked at the money before bringing his eyes back to Sam, raising an eyebrow. He took a hefty bite of his sandwich before speaking around the mouthful. “What’s this?” he asked.

“What, have you never seen money before, Winchester?” Sam drawled out sarcastically. He ducked away before Dean could ruffle his hair, grinning and sticking out his tongue. “I said I didn’t want to owe you, so, yeah. Now we’re even.”

He picked up the cash—thirteen bucks in total, which meant that Sam covered his part of the tip, too—and furrowed his brows. “Where’d you get the money?” he asked suddenly, realization slowly dawning on him. When he looked up, Sam dropped his gaze, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “Sam, what did you do?”

Sam let out a petulant scoff, folding his arms across his chest and falling back to sit on the edge of his bed. “It’s not a big deal, Dean. I’m not, like, some innocent little kid, alright? Nobody’s taking advantage of me,” he argued, and Dean took in a deep breath, dragging his palm down his face as a new flicker of anger lit inside of his ribcage.

“Sam, I don’t want your money,” he grit out, shoving the money towards Sam. Sam made no motion to take it, so Dean stepped to him, reaching down and grabbing the kid’s wrist to place the money into his palm. “What you’re doing is so fucking dangerous, you have—I know you think you know what you’re doing, but you don’t. It only takes one guy to get you alone, and then you’re gone. Forever, alright?”

“I _know_ , Dean,” Sam shot back, shoulders tensing, and Dean let out a groan, dropping onto a knee beside the bed. He held onto Sam’s wrist, peering up at the kid.

Sam was so young. He was young and pretty and he trusted Dean too quickly, and Dean could feel worry strangling his throat. If Sam took one look at Dean and thought he was a good guy to bet on, then Dean couldn’t imagine what would have happened if someone respectable-looking with ill intentions had come along. “Do you want to do this, Sam? Do you—like it?” he asked.

Sam was quiet for a moment; Dean watched him chew the inside of his cheek and drag his teeth over his lower lip nervously. “I dunno,” Sam finally said with a shrug, eyes trained on his knees.

“Sam, look at me and be honest,” Dean instructed. Something warm lit up in the lower stomach at the way Sam obeyed, eyes peering through his bangs at Dean. “Is this something you wanna do?”

“Not really,” Sam whispered. 

“Then don’t. You don’t have to pay me back. You don’t owe me anything. It’s fine, Sam, I just—I’d prefer you were safe than have you pay me back for a meal. I just want you to be safe.”

Sam took in a deep breath and nodded slowly. Dean felt the rope around his throat loosening, and he reached his hand out to ruffle Sam’s hair. This time, Sam leaned into it.

Ten hours made the world of a difference.

“Need to shower?” Dean asked, and Sam shook his head. “Then we’re out on the road in ten. Make sure you pee—we got a bottle in the truck and I don’t like to make a lot of stops.”

Sam wrinkled his nose at the idea, and Dean felt laughter burst out of himself; Sam stared at him incredulously before his light-hearted giggle joined in.

———

“Why’re we stoppin’?” Sam asked sleepily, rubbing at the corners of his eyes as he twisted in the seat. Dean reached over and flicked Sam’s bangs, causing the kid to scowl and stick his tongue out petulantly before reaching up to fix his hair. Sam peered out the window at the modest parking lot, rows of minivans and hatchbacks lining the blacktop. Dean turned off the engine and dawned a smile at Sam’s knitted brows.

“C’mon. I wanna show you something,” Dean said and hopped out of the truck.

Dean hardly had to walk ten steps before Sam’s voice rang out incredulously behind him.

“Is that—a giant ball of string?”

“It is, in fact, the largest ball of string in the continental U.S.,” Dean exclaimed proudly. He grinned at Sam’s stunned-silence expression. “My dad used to take me here every time we road tripped down Route 66. I have pictures across, like, fifteen years of me standing next to it.”

“This is the most Midwestern thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life,” Sam deadpanned. 

Despite all of his eye-rolling and embarrassed-teen act, Sam fit into his side for the photo, grinning widely as Dean snapped the picture. When he asked another tourist to take their photo for them, Dean wrapped his arm around Sam’s shoulders and drew him in tight. Sam was hot up against his chest—it was a weird thing to notice, Dean thought, but now that he was paying attention, he could see the way sweat pooled in the hollow of Sam’s throat when he turned to look at him.

“Dean, you’re not even looking at the camera,” Sam whined at his side. His neck was flushed from the afternoon sun, cheeks pink and hair wild from when he was messing with the window as they shot down the highway. The sight settled something uncomfortable in Dean’s stomach, and he swallowed thickly, turning to face the camera.

“Say _Kansas_!” The tourist called out, and Sam let out a quick bark of mocking laughter, eyes going wide as he slapped his hand over his mouth. The sound of it felt like it punched Dean right in the chest, his heart tightening up as he grinned.

“Kansas,” Dean drawled out, and Sam let out a long peal of laughter that left Dean’s chest as warm as Sam’s skin felt.

Lunch was a quick affair at one of the truck stops along the route, sandwiches eaten in the truck while Sam complained loudly and at length about high school trials. Dean listened with feigned interest as Sam sullenly described the most recent betrayal committed by his best friend, Brady—apparently, it _was_ a crime to go to someone’s birthday party if your friend didn’t like them. 

“It wasn’t that I _didn’t like_ Jake, Dean,” Sam whined, flopping his head dramatically to the side. “He stabbed me in the back. We were _enemies_.”

“He asked a girl you had a crush on to homecoming,” Dean countered, snorting as he took a bite of his sandwich, “that’s not the same thing as being stabbed in the back, dude.”

Sam viciously tore into his turkey and cheese, glaring at the dashboard. “It wasn’t cool,” he grumbled. “He knew I liked Jess.”

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean started. Sam gave him a side glance, and Dean reached out to ruffle his hair, hand smoothing down the side of his neck to give his shoulder a squeeze. “Sometimes people do shitty things. It’s all in the past, Sammy. You’ll make new friends in California, get a girlfriend, all that stuff.”

Sam looked at him doubtfully, pursing his lips into a thin line. Dean offered a grin back, chucking Sam under the chin and pinching the baby fat of his cheek between his thumb and forefinger until Sam scowled and waved him off. 

“Look, you’re nice, you’re smart, you’re cute. You don’t have anything to worry about, Sammy. You’re gonna have people lining up the block once you get settled,” Dean assured. Sam stared at him for a moment, silent and slightly wide-eyed, before he smiled and ducked his head away, reaching out to shove Dean’s arm.

“Thanks,” Sammy mumbled, so quietly that Dean almost didn’t catch it. Dean raised his eyebrows teasingly, either way, bringing a hand up to his ear.

“Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you,” he said playfully. Sam groaned and shoved his arm again, knocking his hand away from where it was cupped against the side of his head.

“I said thanks, _jerk_ ,” Sam said, voice pitching a decibel louder.

Dean laughed, smirking back at Sam. “You’re welcome, bitch,” he shot back. Sam made a noise of choked-off protest at the nickname—before he could voice a complaint, Dean started the truck and revved the engine.

Sam sat quietly in the passenger’s seat for the next few hours, scrolling through his phone—every once in a while, he’d pipe up with what he felt was an interesting fact, a _so get this_ statement that Dean couldn’t help but listen to, either way. Dean quickly found out that Sam was an avid true crime fan, he enjoyed historical podcasts, and his favorite movie, like, _of all time_ , was _Empire Strikes Back_.

“It’s a classic take on the hero’s journey, Dean,” Sam had argued. “Luke’s humanity is tested by this darkness that lies within him—he has to learn for himself that the dark that he holds inside doesn’t inherently mark him for the Dark Side.”

“Yeah, but did Han shoot first, though?” Dean teased, and Sam groaned into his hands.

“That was the first movie, and I know that you know that!” he whined. “You’re just being mean now.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Sammy.” Sam pouted, sulking in his seat. Dean grinned and reached over; Sam didn’t even protest when Dean ruffled his hair, waiting until it was mussed up before he reached his hands up to fix his bangs. “If I don’t tease you, then who will?”

———

The sun was hanging low in the sky; an easy quiet had fallen over the truck as Motörhead wailed softly through the stereo, and Dean double-checked his route. He could head through Wichita, he figured, then head south on I-35. It was a longer route to get to Flagstaff, but—

“Dean!” 

Sam’s hand came to clutch at his forearm; Dean jolted, the truck jerking in the lane before he righted it. He glanced at Sam, eyes wide and concerned, his brows furrowing in flashfire panic. “What?!” he barked out, heart beating rabbit-quick in his chest.

Sam shoved his phone up to Dean’s face. Dean squinted to read it, glancing back at the road before looking over the website. _Haunted Ghost Towns_ , it read, _Dubuque, Kansas_.

“We _just_ passed a sign for Dubuque, it’s coming up in eight miles,” Sam said, “it’s _kismet_.”

“It’s bullshit is what it is,” Dean answered. He took in a steadying breath, looking behind him to see if any cars had seen him. The road was empty, stretching in front and behind, and he let out a soft, relieved breath. 

“There’s a haunted church,” Sam piped up, scrolling down the page. “We should go!”

“I don’t do ghosts,” Dean sniffed, and Sam gaped at him.

“Why not?” he demanded, already in full-force petulance.

“Because they’re freaky, Sam! We don’t mess with spirits,” Dean grumbled. His mind flashed back to 2011—Sarah Ashland’s sixteenth birthday party. He’d seen things. Unnatural things. A line of goosebumps trailed down his arms as he suppressed a shiver. “Or demons, for that matter. None of it. It’s like—it’s like asking to get killed.”

Sam let out a disbelieving huff that landed somewhere between a breath of laughter and a scoff. “Are you—are you _scared_? Of _ghosts_?”

“What, and you aren’t?” Dean demanded.

Sam shrugged, an easy roll of his shoulder as he leaned back into the seat and set his heels against the dash. “Why should I be? First of all, ghosts aren’t real,” Sam pointed out. Dean rolled his eyes—of course, Sam would be a skeptic. “They _aren’t_ , Dean! And even if they were, I doubt most of them are, like, _evil_. They’re probably all just lost or whatever.”

“That’s what they all say, y’know. Before they die,” Dean countered. “That’s horror movie logic right there. I wasn’t aware you were a blonde coed named Brenda.”

Sam grinned, leaning over the middle console to wrap his fingers around Dean’s bicep; the action made his stomach tighten up, and Dean smothered the feeling as best as he could. “Then I guess you’ll just have to be my good-looking and sensible savior,” he teased.

Dean rolled his eyes, but when Dubuque’s exit came up, he took it.

If he had known that the church was on private property and that they weren’t legally allowed to be on it, then Dean would’ve bypassed it completely.

“Oh, come _on_ , Dean. There’s nobody around. Who’s gonna catch us?” Sam asked, motioning an arm around wildly. He pulled at the church doors and they swung open with a creak, and he gave Dean a smile over his shoulder. “See? If they didn’t want us here, they’d lock it.”

“Yeah, that’s not how the law works,” Dean grumbled, shuffling in after Sam. It was a pretty church—there was a stained glass window that filtered in the darkening twilight. 

When he turned back to face Sam, the kid was sitting in front of the pulpit and pulling out a board, smoothing it onto the ground.

“What the—so you don’t have a jacket, but you do have a ouija board just _tucked in your backpack_?” Dean asked incredulously as he stepped closer to look. 

Sam rolled his eyes and dug into the front pouch for the planchette, setting it neatly on the board. “Yeah, so, like, turns out people will totally steal your jacket, but for some reason don’t want your potentially cursed spirit objects. _Weird_ ,” Sam answered before motioning to the spot across from him. “C’mon, Dean, I need your, uh, spiritual energy.”

“I’m not touching that,” Dean shot out immediately, folding his arms across his chest. 

Sam let out a whine and flopped over to the side, reaching out to grab Dean’s leg. “Deaaaan, where’s your sense of _adventure_?” he asked, tugging Dean closer by the hem of his jeans. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so fucking cute.

Dean pulled his leg away, leaving Sam to dramatically lie facedown on the ground. “I live on the road, Sam! I get into bar fights and sometimes—sometimes, confession time, sometimes I don’t wrap it if a girl asks nice enough! That’s all the adventure I can handle!” he admitted.

Sam pushed up slowly, leaning on his palms as he looked up at Dean through his bangs. He popped his pout out, eyes growing wide and soft and desperate—despite Dean’s reservations, he felt himself crumbling at the sight. “Dean, please. I promise, I’ll never ask to stop anywhere again, I’ll be good,” he pleaded.

“I thought you didn’t believe in this kind of stuff,” Dean shot out. He knew he was just buying time now—the both of them were confident that Sam was going to win this battle.

To his credit, Sam’s eye roll wasn’t as dramatic as Dean thought it was going to be. “If I believed in this kinda stuff, why would I be stupid enough to carry around a ouija board?” he answered. The _duh_ resting on his tongue went unsaid, though his expression was enough to convey it.

Dean debated with his rational side for a hot minute— _this is exactly how people die in horror movies_ , he kept telling himself—before he dropped down on the ground across from Sam.

“If I ever hear shit from you again, I’m dropping you off—“

“—at the nearest cowtown, yes, I know, you’re the best and I love you,” Sam grinned, waving Dean’s hands in so they could press their fingers against the planchette. Dean felt his stomach flop at the casually said words, his brows furrowing before he reached out and obeyed.

He let Sam guide the communication, unwilling to ask questions—because there was something out there that would answer, he just knew it. It was silent for a long moment, only Sam’s voice ringing out and the distant sound of passing cars. Dean felt anxiety trickle down his chest into his stomach as he waited for the planchette to move, eyes flicking down at the ouija board and up to Sam’s intent, focused expression.

With only their phone flashlights to illuminate the space, the shadows over Sam’s face were sharp, highlighting the features that Dean knew were soft and rounded. His slightly-upturned nose, the peaks of his cheekbones, his full lower lip; Dean felt his throat grow tight at the confusing sensation that muddled up his chest. There were moles dotting Sam’s jaw, down his throat—the one that Dean couldn’t keep his eyes off of whenever he gave the kid a side glance in the truck was picturesque, a dark circle by his nose. 

Dean had wondered about it before, but with the way the light shone through Sam’s irises, they reflected green, amber specks flickering through them. They had looked a rich and warm brown when Dean had first picked him up outside of St. Louis—in Cawker City, they had looked blue-tinted. 

He blinked, focus dragged away from the color of Sam’s eyes to the kid’s soft voice calling out, “Is anyone here?”

Sam’s eyes were pretty. His voice was pretty. _Sam was pretty_. The certainty of the thought left a flush running down the back of Dean’s neck, and he lifted a hand to rub against it subconsciously. Sam gasped, and when Dean looked down, the planchette was slowly gliding across the board to the _YES_ mark.

“What’s your name?” Sam immediately asked, and Dean glared at him over the board, only to be met with Sam’s glee-filled grin; Sam quickly schooled it into something somber as he nodded to the board.

 _M_ , it responded. Dean felt a trickle of cold fear run through him. _A_ came next, and Dean shook his head.

“Fuck that, I’m done, I’m _done_ ,” Dean said, but Sam grabbed his wrists before he could stand. “No, Sam, I can’t—I can’t do this.” His breath came in stuttered and sharp. He knew he was panicking now, the familiar press of an age-old haunt against the back of his neck, and Sam’s touch softened, eyes growing gentle and concerned.

“Okay, just—we have to close the portal before we leave or else something could follow us out,” Sam said carefully. Dean felt a shiver run up his spine, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Sam leaned forward, and Dean dragged his tongue nervously across his lips in fearful anticipation. “You don’t want a _haunted truuuuck_.”

“Fuck you,” Dean shot back at Sam’s grin as he pulled away. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”

“Jerk,” Sam immediately countered, sticking out his tongue.

“Bitch,” Dean responded, even as the break in tension started to alleviate the fear that settled in his stomach. Sam gave him another wide, face-splitting beam, and the brightness of it began to sweep the panic away.

———

“Alright, kiddo,” Dean said as he threw open the door, “I’m gonna need you to hang out in the truck for a while.”

Sam shot up, peering over the couch—he was watching Scooby-Doo, the comical sounds of over-exaggerated sprinting carrying out through the motel room. Dean grinned sloppily; he’d been the same way when he was younger, waiting for Dad to come home from the Miller Time shift. 

Once they’d settled into their motel room for the night after their horror-story misadventure, Dean had announced he needed a stiff drink, eager to put himself into an alcohol-induced slumber so he didn’t see ghosts in every shadow. One ghost, in particular, and Dean had needed a lot more than a few drinks to sedate that thought. 

Rachel—Rachel? Rebecca? something like that—snorted a giggle into his shoulder. Dean found a rumble of laughter draw out from his chest, too, and he pulled her along into an uncoordinated stumble into the room. He hooked his arm around her waist and she pressed her hand against his chest, giggling. 

“M’gonna go freshen up,” she said, popping the last word, and Dean grinned, patting her butt as she left his side. She gave Sam a short wave before entering the bathroom, and Dean turned to the kitchen table, grabbing the truck keys and holding it out for Sam.

“Here ya go, Sammy,” Dean offered graciously. He swayed on his feet as he waited for Sam to take them—it felt like it took forever for Sam to turn off the T.V. and walk over, but when the kid finally did, Dean dropped the keys into his hand. He reached out to ruffle Sam’s hair, but the kid ducked away from it, frowning. “Aw, c’mon, Sam. A man’s got needs. You get it, right?” Dean asked, and Sam stared back.

“This isn’t going to be a frequent thing, is it?” Sam shot out. There was something cold about it that Dean couldn’t understand.

“Nah, Sammy,” Dean answered, furrowing his brows. He leaned forward—maybe too far, so he corrected himself—and dropped his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Look, once I’m done, I’ll— _fwoop_ —kick her to the curb, come and get you, alright?”

Sam stared at him for a moment longer before nodding slowly. Dean grinned, patting Sam’s cheeks. Sam was good. Sam was sweet and good and pretty—if Sam were only older and a girl—Dean’s eyes dropped down to where Sam’s teeth came out to bite down on his lower lip.

“Don’t take too long,” Sam mumbled, waving Dean’s hands off and pulling away.

He was gone before the chick emerged from the bathroom. Dean thought it was probably for the better, given her level of complete undress.

She was soft. His fingers dipped into her breasts, the roundness of her thighs, the curve of her waist—his eyes fluttered shut as she bounced on his lap. This was what he needed. He had been cooped up for too long—all of those dreams missing Lisa had culminated in the chaotic mess of feelings that dropped in his stomach every time he caught Sam in the right light. Dean had started to see the features in Sam’s face that he found attractive because he had been left unsatisfied for too long.

That was it. What else could it have been?

His fingers gripped her hip as he railed into her, palm sliding flat against the curve of her spine as he held her steady. She moaned from above, her voice hitching greedy and desperate at the same rhythm that the bedframe thudded against the wall. 

It wasn’t like he thought about Sam that way. Sam was like a little brother to him. An annoying little brother with a pretty face—but, like, people had those, right? It wasn’t weird to notice that Sam was a good-looking kid. Dean could look in a mirror and point out all of his own good-looking features, and he didn’t want to fuck himself, right? 

“Fuck me,” Rachel moaned, turning over onto her back. Dean gripped the back of her thighs and folded her up, his toes digging into the mattress for leverage as he pounded into her. She tightened around him when she came; the noises she made were shameless, crackling where they pitched a bit too loud or too long in the back of her throat. It sounded almost-fake, showy for his sake.

Dean wondered if Sam made the same kinds of encouraging noises with the men that picked him up before Dean met him. It slotted something dark and protective in his chest, and he pulled out, hands palming her ass as he laid out flat and ate her out.

The noises she made then became breathy whines and hitched-out huffs, her hand moving to the back of his head to keep him there as she came again, thighs spasming hard. 

He wasn’t jealous. That’s not what it was. Sam was still a kid—the kind of guys that picked up kids like that were exactly the kind of guys Dean wouldn’t think twice about kicking the shit out of. If Sam asked him to, Dean would without hesitation. 

Lisa always told him that he had a thing about loyalty.

Rebecca peeled off the condom, tossing it to the side as she took him deep down her throat. “Fuck,” Dean groaned out, fingers smoothing over her hair; they tightened into a fist when he came, her tongue working him through his orgasm.

Dean flopped back onto the mattress, boneless and satisfied. She fit in next to him, purring as she cuddled in close—Dean tucked her head underneath his chin. It felt a little bit like Lisa, he thought. Something tugged in the center of his collarbone, a dark, unsettling sensation that insisted the way he felt wasn’t right. 

He breathed out evenly, brows knitting before he closed his eyes and drifted off into a dream.

Sam smiled down at him, small hands moving to hold his jaw. Dean could feel Sam’s thumbs caressing across his stubble, and it bloomed a smile onto his own lips. He leaned forward, hands pressing flat against Sam’s back as he pressed his ear against the thin chest in front of him, listening to Sam’s steady heartbeat and feeling the sunshine warmth of his skin. 

Sam’s fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. Dean could hear him humming, the sound vibrating through his ribcage and buzzing in Dean’s ear. 

“We could stay like this forever,” Sam promised softly. Dean felt his throat close up. “If you asked, I wouldn’t leave you. But you have to ask me, Dean. If I don’t know, then I’m gonna go.”

He woke with a snort, chest jolting as his back tensed all the way down; in the bathroom, the toilet flushed, and Dean groaned, burying his face into the pillow. The television rang out the morning news, the anchor’s voice a high-pitched grate on his ears through his low-level headache. “Sam,” he called out—there was no answer, despite the sink running. Dean lifted his head and spoke louder. “Sammy, turn off the fucking T.V.”

A pretty-faced brunette popped her head out from behind the bathroom door as she tied her hair up in a bun. “Um… My name’s Ramona?” she offered, confused, and Dean shot up onto his palms, piecing together the events of the previous night before he looked over at the table.

His truck keys were gone. His truck keys were gone because he had kicked Sam out of the room and told him to hang out in the truck while he hooked up with the girl he’d been very badly flirting with at the bar down the street—and shit, he was going to grab Sam and kick the chick out after they were done—

Dean stumbled out of bed, tripping over the sheets tangled around his legs in his haste. He grabbed his jeans and the t-shirt he’d worn the previous night and tugged them on, snatching up the motel keys. “Hey, listen, you gotta go,” he said quickly, turning to face Ramona— _that’s right, I made a stupid fucking Ramones joke_ , he thought to himself. 

God, he had fucked up.

She rolled her eyes at Dean, pulling her skirt into rights before she grabbed her purse and held it up. “Wasn’t planning on staying, big boy,” she retorted. Dean stood in the room’s doorway to keep it propped open as he scanned the parking lot; she patted his chest as she passed by, leaning up to press a kiss against his cheek. He furrowed his brows at the action, reaching a hand up to run his thumb over the spot. She waved her purse at him and started down towards the bar—Dean didn’t bother waiting around to make sure she made it back safely before he took off for the truck, walking briskly across the parking lot with bare feet.

The door was locked, but a few harried knocks had Sam poking his head out from behind the curtain separating the front seats and the cab—Dean pressed a hand against his rapidly-beating heart as Sam slowly slid into the driver’s seat and pushed the door open.

“Sam, I’m sorry—“ Dean started. He stumbled back a few steps as Sam climbed down onto the ground, his hands reaching out immediately to help Sam’s descent. 

“It’s fine, Dean,” Sam answered quietly as he shut the door. He turned and held out the keys to the truck; Dean took them, brows furrowing as he tried to decipher Sam’s carefully neutral expression. “I need to shower. Do I have time to do that, or are we on the road soon?”

Dean felt his throat close up. He’d been heading towards something close enough to touch the night before; he remembered Sam’s soft and kind-hearted concern in the church, the way he’d curbed his normally biting remarks into something sweet in the truck afterward. Dean stared at Sam’s back and tense shoulders as they walked back to the motel room and felt like there was a great divide between them, now, and he wasn’t sure how to bridge it.

“Dean?” Sam asked, hovering in the doorway. Dean blinked and cleared his throat; when he focused, he realized Sam was wearing one of his t-shirts. 

The realization gripped his heart tight and refused to let up.

“Yeah, we—have time,” he finally responded. “We’ll head out in an hour. Take your time.”

Sam nodded mutely, grabbing his backpack off the floor—Dean had left him without it the whole night, of course he had to borrow a sleep shirt—and gave Dean one last look over his shoulder before shutting the bathroom door behind him.

The click of the lock said more than enough, and Dean sank onto the edge of his bed and let out a long, shaky breath.


	3. Chapter 3

“You wanna listen to the radio?”

Sam hummed in the negative. He leaned against the door, shoulders curled away from Dean—all Dean could see of his face was the mess of brown hair against his cheek.

It hurt. Hell, of course, it hurt, but Dean knew he deserved it; he deserved more than just the cold shoulder act Sam was pulling, really. Still, Dean felt unsettled, anxiously waiting for Sam to lash out. This was what happened whenever Dean fucked up, right? People realized what a piece of shit he was and didn’t want to deal with it anymore.

_Pity party, table for one._ Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter. It wasn’t good enough for him to just stew in his own shit. Sam was hurting, too, and Dean was determined to try to lighten the mood. 

“There’s a great sundae place along the route. You wanna hit it up?” If there was one thing Dean had gotten to know over the past couple of days, it was that Sam had a secret sweet tooth a mile wide. He glanced over, trying to see if the offer stirred any interest, but Sam remained stoic.

“I’m not really hungry,” Sam quietly responded. 

Dean swallowed thickly and nodded. His fingers tightened in their death grip around the steering wheel, and he let out a slow, deep breath. “Look, Sam, I’m—I’m really sorry,” he said after a moment of pause. Sam tensed in his periphery, so he continued. “I really fucked up. I was drunk and stupid—I was gonna grab you after, I promise. I wouldn’t have let you sit outside in the truck the whole night if I hadn’t—”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam interrupted suddenly. It definitely didn’t sound like it was okay. “I’m fine. I’m over it.”

“Sammy, I’m trying to apologize here—” Dean tried.

Sam mumbled something under his breath, and Dean glanced at him, brows furrowing. “What?”

Sam propped his shoes up against the glove compartment, turning his body a few inches to speak out. “I _said_ , does your stupid girlfriend know you sleep around behind her back?”

Dean’s mouth went dry. Anger flew to his throat defensively and constricted his words; his voice felt thin in his throat. “What the hell do you know about my girlfriend?” he asked.

“I know you keep a picture of her in your wallet,” Sam shot back.

A cold pin dropped in Dean’s stomach. He yanked the wheel to the side, pulling them off to the shoulder of the road and parking. He saw Sam grow tense, shoulders curling in, but Dean’s chest was white-hot and aching, and he couldn’t curb his fury quick enough; he turned on Sam, voice tumbling low in his throat. “You’ve been through my fucking wallet?”

“I was—I was just putting money—” Sam started before Dean cut in. 

“I don’t _know you_ , okay, Sam? I don’t fucking know you, I don’t want you to pretend like we’re best fucking friends, or that I’m your brother, or whatever you think. I’m just driving you someplace because I can’t have a dead kid on my fucking conscience,” Dean snarled. Sam pressed himself back against the door, dropping his eyes. “Don’t go through my shit. Don’t talk about my girlfriend. And don’t fucking judge me for going out and getting laid when you’re just tagging along for a ride.”

Sam huffed out a low, petulant breath; the sound of it annoyed the hell out of Dean, and he shook his head, dragging his hand down his jaw. “I don’t know why you’re so fucking upset about this,” Dean lashed out, huffing out a low scoff. “We’ve barely known each other two days. And where d’you think you’d be sleeping, anyway? _I_ sleep in the truck. I don’t waste money on fucking motel rooms—I’m only doing that because you’re here. You should be a little more grateful—”

“Fuck you,” Sam shot out shakily. Dean whipped his head to look at him; he was a little stunned at the narrow-eyed anger that trembled through the kid’s shoulders. “Fuck you, Dean, you’re so fucked up—”

“Who the fuck are you to—” Dean started, and then Sam shoved his door open. “Sam—”

Sam slammed the door behind him.

There had never been a more irritating sound in his life. He rolled down the passenger’s side window, leaning over the middle console to yell. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You push people away, Dean! I don’t need more than two fucking days to know that much about you!” Sam shouted. Dean heard a hollow, metallic _clunk_ , and he could tell without seeing it that Sam had kicked the truck.

“Hey!” he barked out. It was ignored in favor of another kick. Dean quickly pushed his door open and dropped out of the driver’s seat onto the dirt, rounding the front of the truck over to where Sam was standing, chest heaving. “Get back in the fucking truck, Sam—”

“Fuck you!” Sam shouted again. He raised a hand to wipe angrily at his eyes, and Dean’s heart stuttered in its rage, chest growing tight. He shoved down the pity that reared up into his throat. “If I’m such a fucking burden then I’ll find my own way.”

Dean incredulously watched Sam stomp a few steps away before he rushed forward to grab his arm, spinning him back around. “Get in the truck, Sam, you know I’m not gonna let you get into some stranger’s car—”

Sam looked wounded at the words. “I thought _we_ were strangers, Dean,” he spat back. The knife between Dean’s ribs twisted. When he faltered, Sam took back his arm, fingers massaging into the meat of where Dean’s hand had been. “You tried, okay? You tried to keep me safe, and I was just too much to handle. That should be enough for your conscience.”

“What do you want me to do, Sam? Do you want me to say that I’m sorry?” Dean asked. He knew he sounded desperate. He didn’t know why he cared so much.

Sam stared back, and for the first time since he’d picked him up, Dean believed they really were strangers. He didn’t know how to decipher the look on Sam’s face. He didn’t know how to make things better. He didn’t know how to convince Sam not to walk off, and he didn’t know how to convince himself that it was better for the both of them if Sam did.

They didn’t know each other, no matter how painful each ragged breath felt as they were dragged into his lungs.

“I don’t want you to say you’re sorry, Dean,” Sam answered. The valley between them grew immeasurably. Dean’s breath hitched in his throat. “I want you to actually feel sorry.”

Dean should’ve chased after Sam. He should’ve tried to convince him to get into the truck. He should’ve done something— _you deserve this_ , a part of his brain told himself, _people will always leave you in the end_ —but he got back into the truck and started it up.

He watched the road until Sam was nothing more than a dot in his rearview mirror, and then he drove on.

———

Dean stopped at a truck rest just outside of Oklahoma City, put his head into his hands, and breathed shakily into his palms.

This was a good thing. This was what he needed. He didn’t need to worry about Sam constantly—didn’t need Sam to be an ever-present thought in the back of his mind, didn’t need to be distracted by him. Dean didn’t need to be scared that Sam was going to leave him—why had he been scared in the first place? How could he be scared to lose someone he didn’t know?

He’d already taken longer on the route than he normally would have with their stops the previous day. Now Dean could focus on getting the job done. He had a few more lined up, and then he could go home and see Dad, get a good night’s sleep in his own bed, take Lisa out on a date—

Dean didn’t know why Lisa’s name felt ashen and bare in his mouth. He swallowed bitterness and bile and tried to breathe evenly again. 

He considered going back and looking for Sam. Dean cursed himself for not getting Sam’s number; he wondered if Sam had gotten picked up after all. He wondered if Sam was still walking down the street waiting for someone to stop. He wondered so fucking much it was making him sick. 

This was an obsession. Dean was obsessed over a fucking _fifteen-year-old_. This was so fucked up, it was so fucked up— _fuck you, Dean, you’re so fucked up!_ —

It was better now that Sam was gone. It was unhealthy, the way he was starting to feel about Sam. Normal people didn’t get this way—not just about kids, Jesus, Sam was a _kid_ , but about strangers, about random people on the street. It was Dean’s bleeding heart, maybe, or bad timing, what with his break-up, or a thousand other reasons to rationalize the way his mind circled around Sam like a vulture.

Maybe it was the stress—and Jesus, Sam was still making him so fucking worried he could feel the heart palpitations in his goddamn brain—or maybe it was the low-level hangover he’d had all morning, but Dean could feel a migraine pushing at the edges of his eyesight. He needed a nap or another drink. Or both. His fingers found their way into the glove compartment, dragging out the flask he kept hidden underneath some King James Bible he’d shoved in there a year back.

Alcohol always burned more when he was feeling sorry for himself. It was poetic in the shitty kind of way. He took another heavy drink and threw the flask back into the compartment, leaning back in his seat and pressing his fingertips into the corners of his eyes. 

“Fuck,” he cursed out low. A bark of laughter tore from his throat. “Fuck. Pull yourself together, you piece of shit.” 

It felt like he was drowning. Dean had perfected the art of self-pity, and it felt like he was being fucking waterboarded under the weight of it. 

Dean breathed out slowly, leaned back onto the bunk, and closed his eyes. 

“You’re so stupid,” Sam teased. Dean gave him an odd look, and Sam huffed out breathy bouts of laughter. “Led Zeppelin is _not_ the best band in the world.”

Dean feigned offense, reaching out to shove at Sam’s shoulder. “Wow. I really picked up a heathen, huh?”

“Drama queen,” Sam drawled out, leaning forward. He plucked an M&M out of Dean’s open palm and popped it into his mouth. “You know, we make a good duo. We could be really good for each other.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked. He held up the last M&M, and Sam popped his mouth open, thin fingers curling around his wrist. Dean pressed the chocolate against Sam’s tongue, and Sam smiled around his finger. Dean’s throat went dry and wanting. 

“Yeah,” Sam answered. He pressed a kiss against Dean’s fingertip when he pulled away, and Dean’s hand dropped, wrapping around Sam’s bare ankle. He wanted to tug him close, chest to chest, so they shared one breath. “If you weren’t so stupid.”

Dean woke with a snort, the lingering image of Sam’s sun-pinked cheeks dimpling fading away to the sunset blinding through his windshield.

He was so completely fucked.

He took in a deep breath, dragged his palms down his face, and drove on.

———

It was fate. It had to be. Dean didn’t believe in God, but hell, if there was one, he was definitely on Dean’s side.

Dean had pulled into the truck stop for the night, stepped out to use the bathroom, and brooded with his hands stuffed into his pockets on the way back when he caught a glimpse of shaggy brown hair across the lot. A part of himself insisted that he was seeing things—and ain’t that a fucking bitch, really, add that to the list of crazy—and his mind was feeding him the sight of the one person that occupied his brain.

The other part, the hopeful part, propelled him forward to give chase.

“Dean,” Sam said, eyes wide. His fingers clutched a bag of Funyuns and a Mr. Pibb, and his jeans had a new rip in them, right below the knee. Dean’s chest heaved, and he tried to school his breathing into something steady. It wasn’t working. Sam stared a moment longer before his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you—are you following me?”

“What?” Dean answered immediately. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. “No, I’m not following you. I just—” He faltered. What was he doing? His legs had carried him to Sam on instinct, but now that they were in front of each other, Dean didn’t know what to say. It’d only been ten hours since they’d last seen each other, and Dean felt like he was going fucking insane.

Ten hours seemed to change a lot in Dean’s life.

“If you don’t have anything to say—” Sam started, turning again. Dean reached out and grabbed Sam’s shoulder; Sam tensed underneath his hand, flinching away. Dean’s hand clenched into a fist at his side at the quick rejection.

“I’m sorry,” Dean blurted out. It fucking hurt to say. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I didn’t think—fuck.” He took in a deep breath, raising his knuckles to press into the corner of his eye before he dragged his hand down his cheek. “I didn’t think about what it’d do to you, and I’m sorry. I know we haven’t known each other for long, but that’s not an excuse. You’re human. You have feelings, and I hurt them.” 

Sam stared silently. Dean cleared his throat.

“You said I didn’t feel sorry, but I did—I do. I was fucking wrong, and it was a shitty thing to do to you,” he continued. Sam seemed to relax under the words, even if his face was still frustratingly neutral. “I don’t have an excuse. I don’t even have a reason why. I’m sorry. You deserved better.”

“Okay,” Sam finally said.

Dean wasn’t sure what it meant. He waited for something further, but Sam’s eyes dropped to the ground and he fell silent. There was a tense moment of unexchanged words, and then: “You aren’t too much to handle.” 

Sam glanced up. Dean shrugged his shoulders, stuffed his hands into his pockets again. “You said earlier when you left—you said you’re too much to handle. You aren’t. I shouldn’t have made it seem like I thought you were some kinda burden. I’m sorry. I never wanted you to think that.” 

“Okay,” Sam echoed. His voice sounded distant and wavering. Dean watched the quick blink of his eyelashes and the softness of his lips when he spoke. “I forgive you.”

It took Dean by surprise. He wondered if it was really that easy—he knew he didn’t deserve it. There was still a part of him that wanted to be punched, yelled at, hated; he wanted Sam to be the one to give him that, the last piece of closure to sever the tie between them.

Sam was unwilling. Dean didn’t know what to do in the face of it. There were a thousand things he wanted to ask: _why don’t you hate me? How could you forgive me so easily? Can’t you see what a piece of shit I am?_

“You, uh—you found someone to drive you?” he asked instead.

_You’re so stupid_ , Sam’s voice rang out in his head. 

_Yeah, I fucking am_ , he responded. 

Sam tilted his head away, shifting on his feet as he nodded. “Yeah. He’s dropping off his shipment now, and then he’s taking me to Michigan.”

Dean’s shoulders tensed up. It was mirrored in Sam’s form, even if Sam was avoiding his eyes. “Michigan? Thought you wanted to get to California,” Dean said slowly.

Sam shrugged, but Dean could see the way he was chewing the inside of his cheek, even in the shitty parking lot lighting. “He offered me a thousand bucks if I ride with him for a few weeks,” he explained. 

Dean’s stomach dropped. That meant only one thing, and the both of them knew it; he took a step forward, and Sam inhaled sharply. “Sam—” Dean started, chest growing tight.

Sam beat him to the punch. “I know, it’s dangerous, whatever,” he shot back, folding his arms across his chest and looking at his feet. “Fun fact, Winchester, I don’t have many other options, do I?”

“You do,” Dean said immediately. His mouth was dry, and he worked to speak through the tightness in his throat. There were turning points in people’s lives, Dean thought. Maybe this was going to be one of his. “Come with me. I’ll take you all the way to California. Please, Sam. Don’t do this.” 

He watched the flutter of Sam’s eyelashes, the way Sam’s fingers curled into his jacket—the one that belonged to Dean. Sam was still wearing the shirt he’d borrowed, too. Dean’s chest ached. _Say yes. Just say yes,_ Dean thought insistently. _Please_.

“Why?” Sam’s voice was a croak, watery and crackling. It made Dean want to pull him into a hug and never let go. Sam cleared his throat and pushed on. “Why do you care so much, Dean?”

Dean swallowed thickly. He didn’t know—or maybe he did, he just didn’t want to put a name on the feeling that was taking root in his heart. He shrugged helplessly, and Sam stared back, his lips a thin, pursed line.

“Kiss me,” Sam said, and Dean took in a sharp breath.

“Sam, I can’t—” he protested, and Sam shook his head.

“Kiss me, just once. I’ll tell the guy no, and I’ll go with you.”

It was a small price to pay, Dean bargained with himself. One kiss for Sam’s safety—because that’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? Just making sure Sam was safe? He knew that it took up a large part of the way he felt about Sam—he wanted to protect Sam, because Sam deserved to be safe, _because Dean deserved to be the one to provide that_ —

One kiss—Dean could handle one kiss. It was just a different kind of closure.

Dean wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Something a little less chaste, maybe—something as desperate as the carved out sensation in his bones. Sam pushed up on his tiptoes and Dean bent his head down and they kissed, something sweet and innocent and close-mouthed. It was a short press of their mouths together and Sam’s soft sigh against his lips before Sam pulled away, dropping down onto his heels.

Dean’s heart raged in his throat. He wanted more. He wanted to hold Sam down and kiss him red-lipped and ruined. When the thought reared up, Dean smothered it with shaking hands, pressing his knuckles against the seam of his jeans.

“Okay,” Sam breathed out. He nodded, and Dean wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or meant for himself. “Thank you.”

“So—” Dean started; his voice sounded wrecked in his throat, thin and raw like it had been flayed open. He hoped Sam couldn’t tell, but it felt so obvious now, the open and exposed livewire of his heart. He cleared his throat and felt every word drag across it. “You need a ride to California?”

Sam let out a watery laugh, cheeks dimpling as he smiled.

It was impossible to deny the way he felt. The obsession, the longing, how he wanted to take care of Sam. Why he was so frightened to lose him. Dean was, suddenly and painfully, jealous of every man who’d ever got to touch Sam—he was violently furious at the one who’d hurt him the most. More than a crush, but just as stupidly heart-wrenching, just as quick to cling to his chest. 

Sam settled into the passenger’s seat, legs drawn up to his chest. Dean handed him his pillow to sleep on, and the sweet, sleepy smile that Sam rewarded him with made his throat close up.

Dean was fucked. A thousand miles to go until California, and he wanted nothing more than to make it last.

———

Karma was a real son of a bitch.

It all started when Dean decided to take a detour. To be fair, it actually started because Sam was being normal—incredibly, frustratingly normal, the kind of apple pie normal that Dean had been striving to achieve for years. He thought that maybe their kiss—and Jesus, he felt like a fucking girl whenever he thought about, his heart racing and his hands itching—would change things between them, a shift in their dynamic from this—whatever the hell they were—to something a bit more, well, _more_.

Sam had, with all the coolness that Dean had ever seen anyone muster, fallen back into the same little brother routine that he’d been upholding so far. 

It was driving Dean absolutely nuts. He knew it was better this way; Sam was _fifteen_ , for fuck’s sake, and Dean wasn’t going to be _that guy_. The same guy that he’d been willing to fight the first night they met—the same guy he was still willing to fight, though perhaps for a different reason now.

He was so fucked. He was so fucking fucked.

It got into Dean’s mind that maybe he should buy them more time together. It wasn’t insidious—he wasn’t going to force Sam to have feelings for him or act interested just because Sam was the only thing he thought about, a constant loop of hazel eyes and dimpled smiles and a gentle rasp to his voice. He just wanted—he wasn’t sure, really.

He just wanted more time with Sam, he guessed, feelings be damned.

So he decided to take a detour. Just back up the 287—there was a pie place near Denver that Dean loved, the only memory of his first family road trip he still had. They could stop there, come back down I-70 and get back on track. Just a day out of the way, and what was a day to him, anyway? They’d been on the road for a solid eight hours, a slow and steady pace that lulled Sam to sleep—Dean kept checking on him in the corner of his eyes, watching the sleep-soft, peaceful look on his face in the late afternoon sun.

Then one of his tires burst. 

“Fucking shit—” he cursed, gripping the wheel to right it as the truck swerved in the lane.

Sam’s body jolted awake in Dean’s periphery, his hand reaching out for Dean’s shoulder; his fingers held tight where they dug into the muscle. “What’s—what’s happenin’?” he asked, voice sleep-worn and panicked. 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean answered immediately, hand coming out to press against the center of Sam’s chest. He could feel Sam’s racing heartbeat underneath his palm, beating the same rapid-fire rhythm as his own, and he stroked his thumb over Sam’s chest. “It’s just the tire, you’re okay.” 

He glanced in the rearview mirror and began the two-lane merge to the shoulder, coming to a slow roll into a stop. It wasn’t until he needed to lift his hand to put the truck into park that he realized he’d kept his palm lingering on Sam; he gave Sam a heavy pat before pulling away.

“You good?” he asked, and Sam took in a shuddering breath, letting it out as a shaky, nervous bout of laughter.

“Yeah. That was scary,” Sam answered, forcing an anxious smile. He pressed a hand over where Dean’s had been a minute before. “I didn’t think it would be so loud.”

Dean checked his side mirror; the road was fairly empty, just a few minivans and semis rolling down every few minutes, and the shoulder was wide enough to accommodate, thankfully. He hated calling for roadside service—nobody knew how to take care of his truck better than he did. “I gotta change the tire,” he murmured. He thought he heard Sam hum in response before he climbed out of the truck.

Sam peered out the window as Dean rounded the right side of the truck, the upper half of his body dangling out precariously. “Do you need any help?” he called out, and Dean waved a hand.

“Just sit tight,” he answered. “And don’t rock the truck.”

He went to work, pulling his tools out from the box behind the cab; he loosened the bolts of the flat tire and set the planks down before backing the truck onto them. Sam grinned during Dean’s half-minute appearance at the wheel, reaching out to set a baseball cap on his head ‘ _to protect him from the sun_ ’. Dean waited patiently as Sam adjusted it to his liking before he reached up and turned it backward anyway—Sam stuck his tongue out petulantly.

“Jerk,” he shot out.

Dean grinned in response, patting Sam’s cheek fondly. “Bitch,” he bit back and hopped back out the truck.

He’d done this a hundred times before—not just on his truck, but dozens of them. Long-haul driving was good money, but a shit job; he liked the muscle ache and perspiration that came with honest mechanic work. Dean had practically been born in an auto shop—Dad was one of the best mechanics in Kansas and had taught him everything he knew, up until John fucking Winchester could barely hold a wrench steady.

It got him breathing hard and sweating in no time, his eyes catching the sunset beams when he turned his head a certain way. His biceps strained as he worked the lever between the tire and the wheel, forcing the flat off the wheel and rolling it off to the side. Dean took a pause to pull off his outer flannel, tying it off around his waist—to his right, a whistle rang out, and he turned, lifting his hat off to wipe his brow with his forearm.

“Don’t mind me,” Sam said with a grin, forearms resting over the passenger’s side windowsill as he peered out, “just enjoying the view.”

Dean couldn’t smother the bark of laughter rolling up from his chest, feeling his throat flush at the teasing praise. “Sit back in the truck,” he shot out, and Sam echoed a sweet-pitched laugh in response before settling back inside.

He got the new tire set in place and was hooking up the air pump when the truck jostled and Sam hopped onto the ground, coming to stand a little-too-close at his side. Dean opened his mouth to protest— _didn’t I say not to rock the truck?_ —but he was nearly done anyway, and Sam pressed a still-cold bottled water against the back of his neck, so he couldn’t complain much.

“Almost done?” Sam asked curiously, voice pitched higher over the sound of the pump.

Dean nodded, drawing up his hat to wipe at his forehead again. “Gonna take a breather at the next truck stop. I need a fucking beer,” he responded, and Sam pressed his fingertips right under Dean’s jaw. He flinched away from it, blinking hard and heart racing harder, but Sam persisted. His hand was cold—from the water, most likely. Dean melted into the touch. “You’re like a pit stop water boy,” he teased lightly.

Sam rolled his eyes, holding his hand against Dean’s throat until it grew warm. “I just don’t want you to die of heat-exhaustion before we get to California,” he cooed back, and Dean grinned, shoving his shoulder. “You’re _welcome_ , jeez!”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Dean drawled out, bending to stop the air pump and replace the valve cap. He pointed back to the open passenger door. “Now get your ass back inside.” 

“You know,” Sam started, already heading towards his seat and speaking over his shoulder, “you really shouldn’t talk so much about my ass. Someone might think you have a complex.”

Dean considered shooting something back, but Sam had the door closed before his brain could think up anything that would reveal the mortifying state of his sexually-inclined headspace. 

———

His original plan was a fruitless endeavor from the start, but Dean was pretty much an expert on how to throw gasoline on himself and light the hell up.

Sam’s easy-going smiles and occasional quips for the thirty-minute drive to the nearest truck stop settled something too-warm and uneasy underneath Dean’s skin. He didn’t know why he was so bent on torturing himself when every second spent with Sam left his stomach tight and aching—he didn’t know why he was so insistent on being near the one person who left his mouth dry and his throat running ragged. Dean tried for normal, pushed at it until his voice gave in and he could parse through every light-hearted joke, but it weighed something a little guilty, a little shameful in his chest.

He needed to clear his mind. 

Sam was already settled in the motel room by the time Dean had taken a proper shower and emerged fresh and clean and ready for a drink. Dean paused awkwardly at the entrance, fingers fiddling with the motel key; he turned around and took in a sharp inhale, but Sam beat him to the punch. 

“Take it easy,” he said, voice thin but lilting teasingly. It made Dean’s stomach churn. “You don’t want to drive with a hangover tomorrow.”

He offered up a soft smile. Dean’s throat closed up, and he cleared through it forcefully.

“Don’t stay up too late, alright?” he called back. “You can’t survive on sleeping in the truck. S’no good for your back.”

Sam nodded stiffly, turning back to the T.V. Dean wondered if it’d be weird if he shrugged off his jacket and went to sit on the couch beside Sam. He wondered if Sam would curl into his side the way he was curling into the arm of the couch. 

He pulled up his jacket collar and stepped outside.

The bar was fairly busy, though Dean couldn’t say he was surprised. Outside big cities on major routes, truckers filled in roadside bars once the sun went down like moths to a flame—he was no exception, but that meant a lot of meaty, sweaty dudes and very few prospects. He’d met a few female truckers on the road, though hardly any of them ever fell for Dean’s charm and swagger demeanor.

The bartender was pretty, a blonde girl with a sly smile and a take-no-shit attitude; he’d thrown her a few cocky grins and received a few eye-rolls back, but the back of her neck flushed pink where she had her hair up in a ponytail. Dean rolled the beer bottle on the counter by the rim, fingers careful as his eyes watched the sway of her hips and thought about Sam’s slim back and thin hips backlit by the sunset. 

He took a gulp guiltily. 

It wasn’t wrong to have a quickie in the bathroom, right? That had been his plan, at least, and by the way the night was shaping up, it seemed like he was right on schedule. Dean needed something to loosen up his muscles, to blank out his mind for a little while so he could remember what it was like to breathe easy. Every time he looked over at Sam, catching glimpses of him in the passenger’s seat, Dean’s breath hitched in his lungs, a suspension that left him floating. There was something about Sam that made the edges of his brain fall away, like everything could be blissfully simple if only he’d let Sam’s delicate fingers take hold of his fears—his mind flit back to the haunted church, the panic that filled up his chest, and the way Sam pulled it out of him carefully.

_You push people away, Dean! I don’t need more than two fucking days to know that much about you!_  

Dean downed the rest of the bottle. He wondered if he really was that easy to read, or if Sam was just that observant. 

“You might wanna pace yourself there,” the bartender— _Jo_ , she’d said with a coy smile—teased when Dean ordered a straight whiskey. “I get off at ten.”

Dean opened his mouth to come back with something vaguely insinuating but instead found his voice wanting, running a little raw in his chest. He offered up an apologetic smile instead, taking the glass she set down in front of him and tilting it towards her as a salute. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he started. His breath stuttered at the raised eyebrow she leveled at him. “I actually have someone waiting for me.” 

“Oh,” Jo responded; she looked a little embarrassed, her shoulders a little tenser. “Seems like she’s got a problem if you’ve left her behind.”

It was clipped. Meant as an attack, most likely, and it worked—it neatly pierced Dean’s lungs, exhausting all the air from them—but probably not in the way Jo intended.

“Nah,” Dean answered, taking a sip. It burned in a way contrary to how whiskey had stopped burning since he turned sixteen. “He’s pretty fuckin’ perfect.”

When he dragged his gaze up to face Jo, the soft sympathy in her eyes and downturned lips made him want to drown. 

He shot the rest of his drink back and ordered another.

———

Dean was more than tipsy, not quite wasted by the time he stumbled back to the room. Dissatisfaction settled heavy in his limbs, lining the insides of his thighs, and he hitched in short, truncated breaths as he struggled with the key. 

Sam opened the door for him. 

It felt like coming home—there was something so stupidly domestic about it. Sam’s soft surprise, his eyes shifting away but hands crowding in close to keep Dean steady and standing. Dean leaned into the touch and felt like he was falling.

He laughed dumbly. He was. He was falling hard, and not even Sam’s careful hands could keep him from the crash-landing pain that awaited him at the bottom.

“Thought I told you to take it easy,” Sam gently chastised. He guided Dean to the bed, and Dean followed after him, mothlike against the sunshine warmth of Sam’s body. He was seated at the bed’s edge, and Sam’s hands lingered against his chest.

Dean peered blearily up at him. The dim orange light of the bedside table cast soft shadows across Sam’s face. Sam was so fucking beautiful, it hurt to look at him.

It was a pain he could get used to. It was a pain that he never wanted to be rid of. At the same time, he felt like it was all that filled him up—an unending ache of guilt that he could hardly breathe around.

“Thought I tol’ you t’go to sleep,” Dean answered stupidly. His words were mush in his mouth, barely enunciated around the laziness of his tongue. He wanted Sam’s tongue against his, wanted to taste the inside of his mouth and see if it tasted the same as the strawberry milkshake he’d gotten with dinner.

Sometimes, Dean thought Sam was psychic. The way he looked at Dean like he could read his thoughts and dissect every nerve in his body left Dean’s mouth dry.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam said quietly, hands working to pull Dean’s jacket off. “You need to sleep this off.”

Dean was angry, suddenly. If Sam could read his thoughts, why didn’t he ever do anything about it? Why did he kiss him and then act like it was nothing? Why couldn’t he just tell Dean off or laugh at him or leave? Why did he have to stick around and be kind and do things like help him take off his jacket and boots?

“Lie back,” Sam gently ordered once his boots were lying beside the bed, and Dean reached out and grabbed Sam’s wrists. Sam tried to tug them away, but Dean held fast, breath hitching in his throat. “Dean?”

He dragged Sam down and kissed him. 

Sam let out a soft noise against his mouth, and Dean’s hand came up to press against the back of Sam’s neck, holding him steady where the world felt off-kilter. Small hands came to rest on his shoulders, and it righted Dean’s vision, even as his guts rattled. Tentatively, after an eternity of pressed lips, Sam pushed into the kiss, and Dean watched the flutter-close of Sam’s lashes and felt the soft sigh against his lips.

He swiped his tongue over Sam’s mouth, against the peak of the pout caught in the kiss, and Sam’s tongue tapped against the tip of his own before Sam pulled away.

“Go to sleep,” Sam said, voice raspy and breathless, and Dean brought Sam’s captured wrist to his forehead, shutting his eyes tight as he kissed the palm of Sam’s hand.

“You’re makin’ me go fuckin’ crazy,” Dean admitted. His voice sounded barren, a desert dry grate that had him choking on every word. “I dunno what I’m doin’, Sammy, I just—I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you.” Once the words were out, it was easy to let it pour, an overflowing of emotion that he’d kept under lock and key and loosened with alcohol. “I dunno what you wan’ from me. I can’t fuckin’—I’m so fuckin’—I don’t—what do you want? Why’re you doin’ this to me?”

Sam pulled his hand out of Dean’s hold and pushed him back against the mattress; this time, Dean went, falling back and feeling his stomach rear up sickeningly.

“Go to sleep,” Sam said again, wavering. Dean couldn’t open his eyes without the world swimming, but he imagined Sam’s lashes were dewy with tears.

There was a soft creak of the flooring, and Dean let out an unsteady sigh, his chest clenching and unclenching, again and again. He wanted Sam. He wanted Sam so much he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Then the mattress dipped beside him, and Sam curled up against his side, head resting on Dean’s shoulder.

“S’mmy?” Dean mumbled. He forced his eyes open, and his stomach didn’t protest, so he turned his head to the side and was greeted with Sam’s unruly hair. It smelled like evergreen shampoo, like the little bottled shit in every Midwest motel bathroom.

“Take responsibility,” Sam warbled back, muffled against Dean’s shirt; Dean felt fingers twist into the fabric of it near the center of his chest. “How’m I supposed to sleep by myself after that?”

Dean shifted so he could wrap his arm around Sam, drawing him closer. Sam felt like a heater against his already warm skin, but his soul held fast to it and refused to let go—his thumb found the curve of Sam’s shoulder, stroking back and forth mindlessly. He stared at the ceiling and felt himself sobering as the silent minutes ticked by, his breathing evening out and the tight strangle of his chest loosening as Sam relaxed into his side. 

It was quiet, and then from his chest, unbidden: “My dad used to drink.”

He could feel Sam shift against his chest. Dean took in a deep breath and continued on.

“A lot. Not when I was really little, I don’t think. My mom left us when I was four. I dunno why. I have a feelin’ but—I never asked.”

Sam hummed a soft, sympathetic noise. Sam’s heartbeat was a steady rhythm where it pattered against Dean’s ribcage, and he tilted his face towards Sam’s hair, nose burying itself in the thick waves.

“When she left, my dad just—couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t deal with being left. So he started drinking, and when he was drunk, he was angry, and when he was angry—” Dean’s voice was thick sludge, cutting off where his mouth refused to continue. Sam’s hand found the center of his collarbone and soothed over the muscle there, easing the choked-off tightness at the base of his throat. “I was a shitty kid, anyway. I tried hard, really fuckin’ hard—I tried to be his perfect son, obeyed every order he gave, but it wasn’t enough, y’know? I was always gonna be a shitty kid. Violent. Angry. Reckless.”

“Didn’t mean you deserved to get hurt,” Sam murmured. With the way his face was half-pressed into Dean’s chest, every word was punctuated with the gentle push of Sam’s lips against his shirt; comfort-kisses even if Sam wasn’t aware of it. 

Dean sucked in a breath between his teeth. He wasn’t sure he believed that, but his heart ached an unfamiliar pain for the boy he used to be. “I hated her. It’s so fuckin’—I know it wasn’t her fault, y’know? She deserved to be happy, too, but I just—I kept thinkin’, wonderin’ how she could just leave me like that,” he confessed. He could feel tears push at the corners of his eyes, and he smothered the sensation with clumsy fingers pushing into the bridge of his nose. “She tried to come get me years later. I refused to see her, talk to her. I thought—I couldn’t stop thinkin’, _you left me. I had to take care of Dad on my own because you left. I didn’t get to be a kid. I didn’t get to have a childhood_. I was so—I was so fuckin’ pissed at her.”

Every word released felt like another weight off his chest. His voice was so thin he could barely hear it above the sound of trucks driving in the distance; ships passing in the night, his soul clinging to Sam like a lifeline through nineteen years of near-drowning in dark water. “When she died, I was so fucked up. I was drinkin’ all the time, fuckin’ off and stealin’ shit and gettin’ into fights all the time. Some days I wasn’t sure if I was gonna—y’know, just some days, I didn’t wanna fuckin’ live—”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam hushed; it wasn’t until then that Dean realized his chest was heaving, his throat hitching out painful, choked sobs. Sam trembled under his arm, against his side, echoing out the same pain in smaller measures.

Dean pushed the heel of his palm into his eyelid and shuddered out a breath. “You’re right. You’re fuckin’ right, Sam. I push people away. Me and Dad, we’re tryin’ to make things better between us—but I still—I still remember seein’ him fuckin’ off to the bar and wondering— _is this the last time I’m gonna see him? Is he gonna leave me, too?_ Sometimes he wouldn’t come back for days and I just—I knew it was because of me, because I was a shitty son, because I wasn’t good enough—and you’re right, I’m so fuckin’—I’m scared—”

“I wouldn’t have left you, Dean,” Sam whispered, cutting him off. Dean cleared his throat hard and wiped his palm down his face, trying to strangle what was left of his tears. “If we were brothers, you never would have to worry about being alone again.”

The words settled somewhere safe in Dean’s soul. It felt right— _brothers_. It swarmed guilt beside the warmth, too, the always-aching guilt of his newfound feelings. He closed his eyes and resolved quietly to himself; Sam didn’t need romance, didn’t need the overcomplicated and heavy burden of someone’s attraction. He needed a brother, someone who would have his back, someone who stopped at nothing to ensure the world was as kind as it could be.

Dean could do that. For the short time they still had together, he could stow the feelings he held and make Sam happy.

“If we were brothers,” Dean whispered back, voice wrecked in his throat, “you never would have been hurt, ever. I would’ve kept you safe.”

Sam’s fingers tightened in his shirt, and he shook, a violent tremor wracking through his thin shoulders. Dean held on fast, pressing his face into Sam’s hair; the dark, thick waves, the sunlit warmth that filled up the pit of his stomach and chased away the ruined edges of his soul. “I never told anyone that shit before,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure Sam heard it; he could hardly hear himself over the heartache pound in his ears and Sam’s soft weeping. “Just you. Dunno why, it’s just—just you.”

Dean held him there until he felt Sam settle, hiccuped breath evening out into something smooth and slow. He held him there through the night, and his heart was gravel-dragged into his throat when he woke the next morning to the scent of evergreen.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam was a saint.

Waking up next to Sam’s warm body had been a mixed bag of emotions. The way the morning light drew into the room through the thin motel curtains left a soft glow over Sam’s sleep-serene features that Dean was content to look at. Forever, even, if the universe ever decided to be that kind. But the alarm on his phone went off shortly after he’d woken up, and Sam stirred, letting Dean’s trapped arm tingle back to life.

The soft smile that Sam gave him, even with his puffy, tired eyes, was enough to quiet the hangover tugging at the edges of his throbbing head.

The coffee that Sam made helped, too. Like he said: a fucking saint.

“I  _ did _ tell you not to drink,” Sam chided gently, his voice just loud enough to hear. Dean knew he was keeping a low hush for his sake, and he appreciated it more than he could say. He hoped his throat-scratched hum in response was enough. “Do you got any quarters? There’s a washing machine in the lobby that’s open to customers, I can get some of our clothes washed while you rest up. Here, take these.”

Dean held his hand open, and Sam turned from where he was sorting through Dean’s duffel bag to press a few painkillers into his palm. Without a second thought, Dean popped them in, downing the rest of his coffee. Before he knew it, it was refilled, and Sam had separated his dirty clothes into a neat pile.

“Where have you been my whole fuckin’ life?” Dean asked, voice tumbling in his throat. Sam huffed out a laugh, turning his summery smile in Dean’s undeserving direction. “Coin purse is in the side pocket. Thank you, Sammy, really.”

Sam hummed, turning away to stuff a plastic bag with their dirty clothes after pocketing the coin purse—Dean could have sworn he saw his cheeks go pink. The sight of it sent heat through to his thighs, and he dropped his eyeline, frowning at the ground as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d already resolved not to let his feelings get the better of him; he wasn’t going to make it more difficult for himself by reading too much into every one of Sam’s expressions.

“Make sure you take a shower, alright?” Sam piped up, causing Dean to bring his eyes up again. Sam was closer now, just an arms-length away—Dean leaned away on instinct, and Sam gave him a curious look. “I don’t wanna spend hours in the truck with someone who smells like they took a roll around in a liquor store.”

“You got it, mom,” Dean drawled out. Sam let out a huffed breath, and Dean couldn’t help the laughter that dragged against his run-ragged throat when he felt the plastic laundry bag hit his shoulder. “Hey, I’m injured,” he protested, and Sam stuck out his tongue.

“You have a  _ hangover _ . That’s not the same thing, jerk,” Sam shot back, already moving to exit the motel room to start on his self-assigned chore. 

“Bitch,” Dean called out, and he was answered with a bright burst of laughter and the door shutting closed. There was the quiet echo of footsteps retreating and the nearby highway rumbling with morning traffic before Dean let out a groan and collapsed back onto the bed, his palms pressed against his eyelids.

Well, it wasn’t like lamenting about his fucked up situation was going to change anything, no matter how much he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Dean still gave himself another few self-pitying seconds of cursing in his head before he pushed up and headed to the bathroom.

After giving himself a thorough cleaning and a mental pep talk  _ not _ to jerk off over the lingering sensation of Sam pressed close against him—not a pep talk that particularly worked, unfortunately—Dean was feeling nearly human as he staggered down the sidewalk to the lobby. He still felt a few good screws loose of peak mental fortitude, but he doubted he’d regain that lost part of him even when the low-level headache left.

When he stepped into the lobby, however, every last bit of sluggishness snapped out of his body in a whip-crack of focused attention.

Sam was sitting in one of the lobby’s off-color, coffee-stained chairs by the washing machine, face pursed into clear discomfort as some greasy-looking, mid-forties sleazeball two cheeseburgers from a heart attack set his hand on Sam’s thigh. In a matter of seconds, Dean had the guy yanked up out of his seat by the collar of his shirt and pushed a few feet away; from the wall that the shithead’s back hit, a framed  _ Employee of the Year _ photo clattered onto the ground. 

“Get your fuckin’ hands off him,” Dean grit out between his teeth. The guy looked furious, and Dean shoved the man against the wall again with the quick, brutal grip of his hand clamped over the front of the guy’s shirt. “I mean it. Don’t you touch him again.”

The fucker had the audacity to sneer. “Not up for sharing your girl, huh? Pay you pretty well to let me have an hour in a room with that one,” he mocked.

Dean felt anger rush up from his chest, white-hot and scalding in his throat. “He’s my brother, you sick fuck,” Dean snarled back. His free hand went inside his jacket, resting near his hip. The guy’s eyes flickered down to watch the motion. “And if you so much as look at him again, I’m gonna shoot your fuckin’ dick off.”

It always was easy to get a piece of shit to stop talking.

As soon as the guy exited the lobby in a huff, red-faced and cursing, Sam turned on him, eyes wide. He didn’t seem to have words—it took Dean a moment to see his hands were shaking.

“Whoa, hey,” Dean immediately rushed out; he went to kneel in front of Sam, his hands smoothing over thin shoulders. “You okay, Sammy? He didn’t hurt you, did he? Because I swear to God, I’ll go out into the parking lot and I’ll fuckin’—”

Sam shook his head quickly, fingers coming out to press over Dean’s lips to still them. “I’m fine,” he managed, even as his voice wavered. Dean was unconvinced. Sam’s face softened, his fingers falling over Dean’s forearms as he let out a long breath. “I’m fine now. Thanks. If you hadn’t—”

“Told you I would keep you safe, Sammy,” Dean cut in. 

Sam looked wrecked by the words, a little. Dean wasn’t sure why. Before he could ask, the washing machine dinged, and Sam tore his eyes away.

“Clothes need to be put into the dryer,” Sam rasped out, voice scratched up, and Dean took in a sharp breath at the sound of it.

He nodded, standing straight and running a hand down across his jaw. “Why don’t you go back to the room and get cleaned up? I’ll stay here and make sure it gets dried,” Dean offered.

Sam chewed up his lower lip, eyes shifting away as his brows knitted. Dean wanted to smooth the worried look away with his fingertips. “But… your head…”

Reaching down, Dean hooked his hands under Sam’s armpits to hoist him to his feet. Sam looked a little flustered, arms flailing a bit until his sneakers hit the ground again. “Look, I’m fine. Nothing a shower and coffee didn’t help,” Dean insisted. Sam still looked concerned, so Dean gave him the best brotherly smile he could. “But hey, if it makes you feel better, I get to choose breakfast joint today.”

“You get to pick the breakfast joint every day,” Sam chirped back immediately. 

Dean grinned. When he reached out to ruffle Sam’s hair, Sam scowled and bat his hand away. “Now you’re getting it. Go. Shower. If you aren’t done by the time the dryer is, I’m leaving you behind.”

He watched Sam walk all the way to their motel room, partly to see the annoyed teenager look on Sam’s face as he flashed him his best shit-eating grin, and partly to make sure the perv from earlier wouldn’t make another appearance. It was worth it to hear Sam’s voice carrying to the lobby door, the one-word insult of  _ jerk! _ before the motel door slammed shut behind him.

———

Sam was a demon.

How else could Dean rationalize it?

“You don’t—you don’t like  _ any pie _ ?” he asked, incredulous. He’d been stuck between choosing the boysenberry or the apple crumble when Sam had piped up from behind his menu. The whole detour was so Sam could have the best pie Dean’s ever had outside of his home state, and the kid didn’t even fucking  _ like _ it. Dean’s head was reeling.

“Well—I like dessert pies, I guess,” Sam tried, and Dean gave him an equally incredulous look. Sam at least had the good graces to look sheepish. “I’m more of a cake person?”

“Oh my God,” Dean groaned, setting his head down on the table with a thud. The waiter that had been approaching their table took it as a sign that they needed a few more minutes and turned heel; Dean wanted the guy to come back and strangle him with his apron strings.

Sam’s hand came down on the back of his head, petting gently as he tried to appease. “How about this? You get whatever pie you wanna get, and I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me,” he promised.

Dean lifted his head an inch to look up at Sam, his brows furrowed. Sam flashed him a smile.

“Fine,” Dean mumbled as he lifted his head—he kept up the act of betrayed older brother, even as Sam’s smile swept away any ill feelings. “But I’m gonna get  _ two _ slices.”

He ended up going with the apple crumble, a heaping scoop of vanilla melting its way into cinnamon, sugar, and healthy chunks of Honeycrisp apple, and a chocolate cream pie. He was a firm believer of the fruit pie—one of his fondest memories was of his mom’s blackberry pie—but it was worth it seeing Sam’s eyes light up at his first bite.

“I’ll concede,” Sam said, a smile dawning soft and sweet; Dean could watch the sight all day. Another forkful of chocolate cream had Sam letting out a happy little hum. “This is  _ almost _ as good as cake.”

“Watch it, kiddo,” Dean said, whipping his fork up at Sam’s direction. Sammy held back a snort of laughter, grinning widely at Dean’s leveled look. “You bring that kinda talk into the truck and I’ll leave you on the side of the road.”

Once they’d finished off their pies—clean plate club for the both of them, and nothing had made him prouder—Dean could tell it was going to be a long day as soon as they hit the road.

They had a lot of ground to make up and no other distractions along the way; Dean figured it was going to be eleven hours in the truck with no stops. They stocked up on snacks and water and climbed in for the day, roaring down two-lane highways with the radio blasting AC/DC.

It was strange how easy things felt with Sam. It was something he’d noticed on their first day together, but it never stopped being a source of wonder for Dean—he would turn and catch Sam quietly mouthing the words to whatever song was playing, or shoving a handful of sour Skittles into his mouth, or just staring dreamily out of the window, and Dean felt at peace. Like everything in his life had been so he could experience this: something pure and simple and warm.

They were rumbling a few hours down the road when Sam’s toes poked at his arm. Dean did a double-take when he realized Sam was barefoot, curled into the door with one leg folded over the other as he dangled his foot near Dean’s face. He let out a rough bark of laughter and slapped the wiggling toes away. “You sure are making yourself comfortable, huh?” Dean shot out, and Sam stuck out his tongue, coated in shades of blue from the candy he’d just been eating.

“I didn’t know you carried a gun,” Sam answered. Dean furrowed his brows, confused, and he tilted his head towards Sam. “Y’know, earlier, when you threatened that guy in the lobby?”

“Oh,” Dean answered.  _ The perv _ . He reached out and lifted his jacket, turning his body a little so Sam could see that there was nothing there. “Just glad he didn’t call my bluff. It helps that I kinda look like the type of guy that would own a gun.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’re a regular John Wayne,” he retorted, resting an ankle over Dean’s thigh, and Dean couldn’t help himself from putting his palm over it.

“You should see me with a paint gun. Bulls-eye Winchester, they call me,” Dean shot back.

Sam nearly kicked his crotch when he burst out into a fit of laughter. Despite the blow to his ego, Dean couldn’t deny that he loved the sound.

It was nearing hour eight when Sam asked about Dean’s future.

“Uh,” Dean started, caught off-guard by the sudden question. Sam tilted his head, and Dean looked from the road to the boy sitting beside him. “I don’t know, honestly.”

“Do you wanna do this forever?” Sam asked, curious. He’d shifted around in the past few hours, but his ankles found their way back hooked over Dean’s leg in the past twenty minutes. Dean dropped his hand to them and ran his thumb over the jut of Sam’s thin ankle bone as he shook his head.

“Nah. Nobody really wants to do this shit forever,” he answered. Sam hummed in response; it seemed like he was waiting for Dean to continue, so Dean took in a deep breath and shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d like to open up my own garage, I think. I’m good with my hands, and I like it.”

“You definitely looked good when you were changing the tire,” Sam piped up. When Dean raised an eyebrow at him, he was rewarded with an embarrassed flush sweeping down Sam’s throat. “I mean—you looked like you knew what you were doing. You looked like you were good at it. That’s what I meant. Oh my God, stop looking at me like that—”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Dean answered innocently, to which he received a few feet stamps over the side of his thigh. He grinned and faced forward again, holding a hand up in defeat. “Alright, alright! How about you? What’s next for Sam, professional runaway?”

Sam hummed again, a little melodic noise, almost like he wasn’t even aware he was making it. “School? I wanna finish up school and go to college, really,” he answered.

Dean whistled. “Damn, I knew you were a geek boy. Don’t tell me you’re the type that’s already started looking at colleges.”

“I’m  _ fifteen _ , Dean,” Sam said, as if that was enough on its own. Dean raised an eyebrow and Sam rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated little sigh. “Of  _ course _ I have. I need to take the SATs next year so I need to start looking at admission requirements.”

“I got my GED and bounced,” Dean replied pointedly. “College was never for me, so I don’t know how this shit goes.”

Sam let out a contemplative noise. “It must be a lot more pressure for someone nowadays from when you were in school,” he teased, and Dean swatted at his leg. Sam huffed out a protest and wiggled his toes into Dean’s thigh before settling, voice turning quietly nervous. “I’d need a scholarship to attend the school I want to go to, so I have to work hard now.”

“What school’s that?”

“Stanford,” Sammy answered, like it was the easiest fucking thing in the world—Dean nearly choked on his spit.

“ _ Stanford?! _ ” Dean sputtered, turning to stare wide-eyed at Sam. He had a feeling that Sam was a smart kid, but Stanford was some kinda next level shit. “Jesus, Sammy, what’re you, some kinda genius or something?”

Sam flushed under the praise, his eyes turning away shyly. In Dean’s periphery, he saw Sam attempt a nonchalant shoulder shrug. “It’s no big deal,” he mumbled, even as a pleased little smile tugged at his lips. “Besides, I have to actually make it in. Can’t say anything until I prove it.”

Dean was silent for a long moment; he braved a side glance, watching Sam’s downturned face where his eyelashes framed against his cheeks. Dean wondered how the boy was still standing with how hard he worked himself. “Y’know, the longer you’re out on the road, the harder it’ll be to get back into school,” he said, hesitant in his words.

Sam sucked in a deep breath, his eyes still staring at where his hands were playing with a fraying edge of his borrowed shirt. He gave another soft shrug of his shoulder and bit the inside of his cheek. “Gotta get somewhere safe first,” he answered. Dean’s heart ached. “Surviving is the most important thing right now.”

It was quiet in the cab, just the truck rattling and the engine rumbling and passing cars whizzing by. The silence stretched on, beyond the horizon in front of them, like something hanging over their necks—finally, barely breaking the tension, Dean spoke. “I started trucking because it overlooked my priors. I stuck with it because—I dunno, because I need something like this. I have a destination. I have a purpose, even if it’s temporary. When I finish that goal, I got another one waiting for me. That’s why I haven’t ever—settled down. That’s why I haven’t tried to be a mechanic, I guess,” he confessed quietly. He snuck a glance over at Sam; Sam stared back, chewing up his lower lip. Dean’s eyes slid back to the road. “I guess that’s the most important thing for me. Knowing I have a purpose.”

“Is that why you agreed to take me?” Sam asked. 

Dean startled at the question—he hadn’t really thought about it like that before, but he couldn’t dispute it. Taking care of Sam, making sure he was safe—it gave him a sense of purpose greater than any he’d felt in a long time. His eyes found Sam’s again, and Sam held his gaze until Dean turned away once more. “Yeah,” he found himself answering. “Yeah, I guess.”

He could feel Sam’s focused attention on him, an unwavering stare that only broke when a car honked in the oncoming lane. Then, so quiet that Dean wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it: “I feel safe with you.”

If he was supposed to answer, Dean couldn’t find the words before Sam murmured a soft  _ m’gonna nap _ and closed his eyes. 

 

———

Dean had resolved to take Sam to one last stop before they made their way to California—another fond road trip memory with his Dad, and Dean wondered what that meant about him that he wanted to show it to Sam so bad. It was along the way, but the stop meant an earlier start, and Dean rolled into the motel room ready to collapse into bed immediately. It took everything left in him to get himself properly ready for bed—he nearly debated just passing out in the clothes he’d worn all day—and he fell face down onto the mattress with a groan. 

From where his face was pressed against the pillow, he could hear Sam shuffling around him. When he lifted his head, Sam was staring someplace between his shoulder blades; as Dean turned over to rest on his forearms, Sam seemed to snap back into himself, blushing and moving to climb into his own bed.

All it took was Sam’s skittish, nervous eyes finding his own before dropping away again for Dean to speak up.

“You, uh—” he started; Sam seemed to startle at the sound. Dean watched as Sam picked at the blanket where it was pulled up to his nose. “You can sleep in my bed again. If you want. I mean—we both seemed to sleep pretty okay last night, so. It’s just a thought.”

Fuck, he sounded like a virgin newlywed on his fucking honeymoon.

Sam mumbled an answer, one that Dean couldn’t understand with the blanket in the way—he pushed up into sitting straight, his legs slung over the side of the bed. “What?” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sam repeated, voice still soft despite the effort to be heard. 

Dean felt a cold chill run through him; guilt and fear were painful as they tore through his chest. He dug his thumbs into his thighs, palms resting on his knees. Did Sam feel uncomfortable with him? Could Sam tell that Dean’s feelings put him in a compromising situation? The thought of Sam being scared of him—the thought of Sam thinking Dean would touch him like that, unwanted and forceful—

“You’ve been—you’ve been really nice,” Sam pressed on. Dean’s attention snapped back up to him, even as Sam stared at the ceiling. “This entire time, pretty much. You’ve been like an older brother to me.”

Dean swallowed thickly. Shame strangled his tongue, stopped the apology in his throat when he knew he should offer it.

“But I—I mean, I see you like that, too, you are—you’re like a big brother to me, but I—” Sam hitched in a wrecked breath, one that had Dean off his bed and on Sam’s in a heartbeat. Brows knitted and concern washing through his body, Dean pressed a palm over Sam’s forehead, only for Sam to let out a choked sob. “I like you, Dean. I—I like you a lot, and the longer we’re together the more it’s all I can think about, and I just don’t—I don’t want you to stop being nice to me just because of these—these dumb feelings—and I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean—I don’t want you to think I’m taking—taking advantage of you—”

“Hey, hey, Sammy,” Dean murmured immediately, shushing him gently. His heart bled the same ache that Sam felt, the one he’d been holding in; Sam felt it, too. Sympathy and relief and fear and grief and still that painful guilt—they all beat against his throat, fighting for his next words. He wanted to kiss Sam. He wanted to tell him that he felt the same. He wanted to take what he’d been obsessing over, what he’d been terrified of since he met Sam—

Before that—before everything else, before all his own feelings and worries and doubts and wants, before himself came Sam. Sam, who had been through more by fifteen than most people ever would their entire lives. Sam, who, despite it all, kept fighting. 

Sam, who deserved comfort now more than ever.

Dean shifted, moving under the blanket to wrap his arm around Sam and pull him close. With another soft, hitched sob, Sam went, falling into his chest and burying his face there. Dean’s hand washed over his back, lips pressed against Sam’s hair; with a deep exhale, he felt the restlessness that had settled under his skin dissipate with the sensation of Sam in his arms again.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he murmured. Sam breathed shallowly against his collarbone, fingers finding their way to his shirt and twisting into the front of it. Dean pressed his fingertips into the nape of Sam’s neck, holding him steady. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

———

The sun hadn’t risen yet when Dean rolled out from where he was half-smothered by Sam’s thin limbs.

He showered quickly, started up a pot of coffee that filled the small motel room in an instant. There was a moment in the stillness of the room that Dean settled into—he listened to Sam’s soft breathing and the passing trucks beyond their room, letting the peace of it fill up his chest.

They only had one more day together.

The thought rushed into him like a crushing tidal wave, circling around his throat and refusing to let up. It seemed impossible to believe they’d spent less than a week together. He didn’t like to believe in soulmates—hell, Dean didn’t even like the thought of real commitment at times—but how else could he describe the surety and swiftness of the way he felt? 

Once he dropped off Sam, Dean would go back to life as he knew it. The appeal of trying to win Lisa back was lackluster, nothing compared to the image of turning his head and seeing Sam’s soft-eyed expression watching the road before them. But Sam had family that could take care of him—hell, he’d be in California, only a half day's drive away from his dream college. 

Still—Sam’s confession lingered in his mind, weighing down on his heart. Dean knew that Sam was just a kid; it was some sort of hero-worship, maybe, or gratitude that he was confusing with attraction. Using them, bending them to be what Dean wanted them to be—Jesus, he’d be no better than any other guy that put their hands on Sammy. 

When the coffeepot announced it was ready, Dean jolted out of his thoughts, shoving them to the back of his mind as he poured himself a cup.

Sam was sleep-warm and pliant when Dean went to wake him, his hand gentle as he shook Sam’s shoulder. Sam stirred with a soft moan, hands reaching up to wipe at his face.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean murmured quietly as Sam yawned, “we gotta get out on the road soon. You can sleep in the truck, alright?”

Sam let out another sleepy hum, blinking tiredly before pushing up into sitting. His hair was wild, and Dean attempted to tame it with a few fingers before calling it a lost cause with a soft breath of warm laughter. Sam smiled dreamily in response, and Dean fought every instinct to lean over and kiss him fully awake.

It was still another twenty minutes before they were out on the road; Dean helped Sam get situated in the truck bunk, going so far as to pull out his memory foam pillow so Sam could sleep a little more comfortably. Sam was knocked out before Dean even pulled onto the highway, his quiet snoring and deep breathing settling something peaceful in Dean’s soul.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, Dean had started in on winding roads, pine trees spreading far on either side of them. Sam had woken somewhere around mile marker one-hundred and joined him in the front seat, hand-feeding Dean gas station powdered donuts and graciously laughing at all of his jokes. It was nearly noontime when Dean finally pulled over into a rest stop area full of campers.

“Welcome to Gila National Forest,” Dean announced as soon as Sam dropped out of the truck. Surrounding the modest number of picnic tables lay a vast expanse of forest—the rest stop clearing dropped off into a valley where pine trees sprawled as far as the horizon. Sam grinned, quickly making his way across the rest stop to the fence protecting visitors from falling off the precarious edge; when Dean made it to his side, Sam had his phone out to take pictures of the landscape. He grabbed Dean’s arm as he approached, tugging him into frame for a selfie—Dean grinned, making faces for the photos that Sam snapped in quick succession before they stood, side-by-side, arms touching as they looked out into the distance.

“Dad’s taken me here a few times,” Dean started. Sam tilted his head, leaning against the fence to peer at Dean. “Not this rest stop specifically, or anything, but like—when me and Dad did our road trips, we always stopped at this forest. My uncle has cabins all over the country—”

“Fancy,” Sam piped up teasingly, and Dean scoffed, leaning over to bump their shoulders.

“Yeah, you should see these cabins. More like horror stories,” Dean shot back, and Sam let out a scratchy giggle. “Bobby’s got a place out here, so me and Dad would spend a night, usually on the way to the Grand Canyon. It’s just peaceful, y’know?”

He turned when Sam remained silent—their eyes met, and Dean’s heart constricted at the softness in Sam’s face, the swoop of his nose, the pink of his cheeks and lips. His throat suddenly felt dry, and he watched as Sam parted his lips to speak up.

“Excuse me? Do you mind taking a picture for us?” A voice called out beside them, and Dean turned away from Sam to look.

The teenager that spoke out was holding up a camera, pointing behind him with a thumb at what Dean assumed was the rest of his family. It took a moment for Dean’s brain to catch up, so Sam was the one who reached out and took the camera, smiling politely.

“Sure! Do I just press this button?” Sam asked, taking a few steps toward the family. The boy smiled warmly back, leaning over Sam’s shoulder to show him what he had to do in order to take the photo; Dean folded his arms across his chest and perched against the fence as Sam directed the family close together, snapping a few pictures and allowing them a chance to view them for approval. He waited for Sam to come back, brows furrowing as Sam continued to linger—from where he stood, Dean couldn’t exactly hear what Sam and the other kid were talking about, but he could hear when Sam’s sweetheart bubble of laughter rang out, and that was enough for Dean to finally approach the two, forced smile on his face.

“Sammy?” Dean called out, and Sam turned, eyes bright and smile genuine. Dean wasn’t sure what he looked like, but Sam seemed to falter at the sight of it, so Dean attempted at something a little more light-hearted. “You good?”

“Oh!” Sam chirped. The other boy took a step closer to Sam, watching Dean curiously, and Sam reached out and took Dean’s arm. “Dean, this is Neil. He and his family are on a road trip.”

“Imagine that,” Dean drawled before holding out his hand to shake. Neil didn’t have much grip strength—or maybe Dean was overcompensating. Who could say definitively? Sam gave him a pursed lip look that Dean returned with a shrug of his own, biting his tongue when Sam huffed and turned to continue whatever conversation they had been having before Dean made his way over—which was, apparently, all about how  _ similar _ their shared interests were.

Dean kept a barely-held restraint over his patience as the conversation dragged on, only half-listening in as he stared out into New Mexico wilderness. Hell, he only glared at the kid once, and the guy wasn’t even paying attention, so it doesn’t count. He wanted to grab Sam and drag him back to the truck, take him away from Neil—Neil, who was definitely standing too close to Sam for Dean’s comfort—but letting Sam get friendly with kids his own age was the right thing to do, right? He couldn’t control who Sam chose to talk to, no matter how irritating and slack-jawed the other boy was.

Besides, Dean sympathized. It didn’t take long for him to become smitten with Sam, either.

Despite the hard look that Dean was casting Neil’s way, the kid didn’t seem to take the hint to leave—instead, he turned to Sam, motioning to the picnic table that his family had spread out over. 

“If you want, maybe you can have lunch with me and my family?” he asked, voice lilting upwards hopefully. Neil finally met Dean’s eyes, giving him a quick once-over. “You and your brother.”

What Dean wanted was to take Sam as far away as possible from this kid. What Dean  _ wanted _ was to throw Neil into the conveniently placed valley beside them. What Dean did, instead, was turn to Sam, keeping his expression as carefully neutral as possible. 

“How ‘bout it, little brother?” he asked; Sam bit down on his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth. It didn’t go unnoticed to Dean that Neil stared at the sight, too.

Sam finally nodded slowly, to Dean’s guarded dismay and Neil’s uninhibited glee. When they began the short trek over to the picnic table, Sam cast Dean a soft, searching look over his shoulder, and Dean could only meet it briefly before his chest ached enough to force his eyes away.

———

Lunch, as it turned out, was Dean left behind to rub elbows with the fucking family from _The_ _Wonder Years_ while Sam ran off with Neil ten minutes into a conversation about Six Flags Great America, which was, apparently, last summer’s vacation.

Not that Dean was jealous or anything. Neil’s older sister, Darcy, was recently high school-graduated, former captain of the cheerleading squad, and clearly super into him, if the way she kept biting back coy smiles and leaning into his side was any indication. Plus, the potato salad was pretty good, and it’d been a long time since Dean had a home-cooked meal.

Still, Dean couldn’t help but watch as Sam disappeared into the line of trees that broke the clean-cut clearing, Neil following shortly behind—he felt his chest tighten up the moment Sam was out of view. It felt like shards of glass were tumbling in the pit of his stomach, leaving him exposed and raw; he was so sure every ache was visible on his face.

Jealousy never looked good on him. He stuffed a quarter of a turkey sandwich into his mouth to distract himself.

“It’s really sweet,” Darcy started, and Dean hummed questioningly around his mouthful. “How you take care of your brother.”

Dean swallowed, chasing it with a heavy gulp of Coke. “Oh,” he answered, words failing him. “Thanks.”

“It really is incredible,” her mother piped up—Annie, Dean was pretty sure her name was, and every inch the Midwestern mother that he remembered all his friends from elementary school having—as she offered up another serving of potato salad that Dean couldn’t resist. “It must be so difficult on you.”

“Nah,” Dean said, shrugging lightly. He scratched his fingertips through the course stubble of his jawline, suddenly a little shy. “It’s been really nice, actually. He’s a good kid.”

“How does he get his schoolwork done?” Annie pressed on, even as she busied herself with stacking empty tupperware to put back in one of her many reusable grocery bags.

“He’s…” Dean started, searching for a lie, “homeschooled. It’s all just done on the computer.”

“Huh,” she chirped, nodding before looking at her husband, “maybe we should get Neil to do that. He’s always on his computer all the time anyway, yeah?”

“Where’s he thinkin’ about going?” Darcy asked, and Dean’s lips tugged into a smile.

“Stanford,” he answered proudly; Sam wasn’t around to tell him not to live vicariously through his accomplishments, so Dean was going to laud them as much as he wanted. “Shooting for a scholarship.”

Darcy and Annie let out twin coos of awe; even Doug, patriarch of the Brady bunch, couldn’t help but hum in approval.

“That’s somethin’,” Annie praised, and Dean beamed with secondhand pride. “You must be so proud’a him. You two seem real close.”

Dean’s smile softened, the crinkles around his eyes smoothing away into fondness. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered truthfully, “he means the world to me.”

It wasn’t so bad, hanging out with the family—it wasn’t a family experience he was used to, not since he was almost too-young to remember, but they were so welcoming Dean couldn’t help but melt into it. By the time Sam emerged side-by-side with Neil, winding through the last break of trees before he came into view, Dean’s heart ached with a homesickness he’d never really felt before.

Annie and Doug insisted on Dean taking extra sandwiches for the road—she’d tried to offer the last tupperware of potato salad,  _ since you liked it so much, sweetie _ , but Darcy had flushed in embarrassment and told her parents that they were being too forceful. It was too bad—Dean really would’ve liked to take the leftovers—but he grinned and nodded in agreement. He grew up around Midwestern hospitality, around the kind of wholesome people that the family epitomized, and he never really stopped being grateful for it.

He was piling everything into the cab of the truck when he peered out through the front window and saw Neil hovering near Sam. He couldn’t hear their exchange, but it was clear what was happening—Neil typed into Sam’s phone, held up his own a second later. 

Number exchange. Dean grit his jaw and let his attention drop away, distracting himself with a lackluster tidy-up job in the cab until he heard Sam’s door creak open.

“Say goodbye to your friend?” Dean asked as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. Sam hummed in response; when Dean looked up, Sam was peering out his window, staring out into forested wilderness. Sunlight streamed through, falling over his features, washing them with warmth. 

Sam tilted his head towards him, catching him in the stare; they held each other’s eyes for a moment before Sam smiled, dimples blooming so gently Dean was nearly convinced he was dreaming again.

“Thanks for taking me here,” Sam said quietly.

Dean’s heart skipped, stuttering in a way that only Sam could make happen. He smiled back and turned the ignition. 


	5. Chapter 5

The truck rumbled on, filling in the silence where the music couldn’t. Dean focused on the road as best he could, but he only had another day with Sam—not having Sam’s voice echoing in his ear seemed a waste. Sam’s familiar rasp had passed through hundreds of miles of driving and countless hours where Dean had nothing else before, just the constant loop of the same five mixtapes and his own thoughts. 

He missed the sound now, and it’d only been absent for the better part of two hours. Dean wasn’t sure how he was going to deal once he dropped Sam off for good.

He cleared his throat, giving Sam a side glance; Sam was on his phone, fiddling with the case absentmindedly.

“You got that kid’s number?”

Sam glanced up, met Dean’s eyes briefly, then dropped his gaze again. “Mm-hmm,” he answered.

Dean pressed on. “He seemed to like you a lot.”

Sam hummed affirmatively. Dean waited to see if he would get anything further; when it seemed like he wouldn’t, he continued, a little frustration tinting his tone. “What’d you two get up to in the forest? Climb a tree? Breathe in that fresh, clean air?”

“We kissed,” Sam responded bluntly. It knocked the air from Dean’s lungs, jealousy an immediate pain in his chest. He tried his best to smother it down and only somewhat succeeded. “Made out, really.”

“That’s—” Dean started, searching for the words to say. He battled internally and settled on supportive, even as forced as it sounded coming from his tight throat. “That’s good. Great.”

Sam made another noncommittal noise of vague affirmation. It was starting to drive Dean up the fucking walls.

“Are you gonna call him?”

Silence rang out like all the atmosphere had been sucked from the truck—all Dean could hear was the tinny, high-pitched whine of the inside of his brain, hyper-focused on what Sam wasn’t saying. It took him a minute before he even realized he hadn’t been paying attention to the road despite staring down it with the desperate desire to avoid Sam’s eyes in case Sam could read his thoughts the second he turned to look.

It was another long minute before Sam answered. His voice was so small that Dean couldn’t help but glance over—Sam was curled away, head tilted in a way that Dean couldn’t see his expression. “No,” Sam replied.

His voice sounded a little scratched up. Dean’s heart ached.

“How come?” Dean asked. He shouldn’t have. He should have let it drop. He shouldn’t have said anything—he shouldn’t even want to know why, it wasn’t even any of his fucking business—

“I thought maybe if I was around other people, around—around someone I was attracted to, maybe I could—” Sam started. He paused, letting out a soft huff, and it took Dean a few glances to realize Sam’s shoulders were trembling. He reached out on instinct, running his palm down the curve of Sam’s back. “But it has to be you. It’s just you. And I wanted to get over you—I  _ want _ to get over you, Dean, and I just—I can’t.”

His voice sounded so hopeless, helpless and frightened; it split something in Dean’s chest, the thinly-held reserve cracking neatly down the center. 

“If you—if it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to take me—you don’t have to keep driving me. I’ll find a different way. A safe way, I promise, I just—” Sam took in a deep breath, finally turning to face Dean. “The way I feel isn’t going to go away. Maybe—down the line, it will, but not like this, not when you’re—not when you’re like this.”

Dean’s voice felt stripped raw and exposed. “Like what?” he rasped.

“Not when you keep acting like my brother.”

Clarity rang through Dean, shaking his core, slithering down his spine. Dean wanted Sam, and he was tired of telling himself not to.

“I feel the same way,” he confessed. Finally, like a weight off his chest; he heard Sam suck in a quick breath beside him and pushed on. “Jesus, Sammy, I’ve—I’ve been going nearly fucking out of my mind thinking about you. I didn’t think I could feel about someone the way I do about you.”

Sam’s voice was warbled, wavering. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dean huffed out a self-deprecatory breath of laughter. “You’re a kid—”

“I’m not a kid—” Sam immediately protested.

“—You’re a  _ kid _ , and I didn’t—fuck, Sam, I don’t want to take advantage of you, okay? And that’s not just—that’s not some bullshit adults say to ease off the guilt for when they do give in, and I get it, you’ve been lookin’ out for yourself a long time, but I just—” Dean tried, voice cracking before he took in a calming breath and dragged a hand down his jaw. A car whizzed past the truck, blaring on the horn, and Dean let out a deep sigh. “I don’t wanna be some guy you look up to because he took you out of a bad situation. I don’t wanna be someone you feel like you gotta thank just because I did what any person should do. I don’t want to take  _ advantage _ of this situation.”

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean glanced his way, Sam’s mouth was parted, teeth coming out to chew on his lower lip as if he were struggling with the words to say next. Dean cut him off before he could. 

“I like you a lot, Sammy,” Dean said, so quiet it might as well have been a whisper. “But I don’t know how to come to terms with the way I feel about you. So funneling it into being your brother—that’s all I can do. And I like it, I like feeling like your family, I like—”

“I like it, too,” Sam echoed softly.

Dean reached over and placed his palm over the nape of Sam’s neck, thumb stroking the side of his throat. “I don’t know what to do about this situation. I don’t have the answers. I don’t know how to separate the way I feel about you from the way I should from the way I want to. It’s all just—it’s just fucked up.”

There was no answer that greeted him. Dean didn’t expect there to be. His hand fell away, and silence filled the truck once more; it was so delicate that every time Sam breathed out, Dean felt like the sound could pierce the quiet that fell on them.

The odometer ticked past another fifty miles before Sam spoke. “You said your dad used to take you to the Grand Canyon,” Sam said haltingly, voice quiet and unsteady. 

Dean’s throat felt dry. “Yeah—just a few times, it wasn’t…” he tried.

Tension hung in the truck like a noose around Dean’s neck. He tried to swallow against it. Sam brought his eyes up, peering at Dean through dark lashes.

“Can we go there?”

Sam hadn’t asked to make any stops since their ghost encounter. Long-haul trucking wasn’t conducive to tourist attractions; Dean had only wanted to because Sam was around. He thought about all the empty, lonely miles that would exist after Sam left.

One more stop didn’t hurt.

“Yeah,” Dean answered, and Sam settled into the crook of the door. “Let’s go.”

———

The sun had already started setting by the time Dean found a place to park near enough to the National Park that they could still see the burnt cliffside hues of the canyon. They leaned against the front of the truck, staring off into the distance as the sky darkened; twenty minutes, and the sun disappeared below the horizon, leaving the sky washed with a twilight purple. 

Sam tucked into his side when a breeze picked up, and Dean didn’t hesitate to wrap his arm around Sam. They stood there, sides pressed against each other; down the road, a streetlight blinked into existence, and the brightest stars lit up in the desert sky.

“It’s alright,” Sam said. Dean hummed, tilting his head down; Sam kept his gaze away, even as his arms snaked around Dean’s middle. “It doesn’t matter that you don’t have the answers.”

“Sammy—” Dean started, and Sam shook his head against Dean’s shirt.

“It doesn’t. Love, family, whatever it is—not knowing what to call it doesn’t make it not real.” 

Dean didn’t know how to respond. There was a part of him fighting to come to the top—a part of him that believed Sam, that knew what he was saying was right. 

“I don’t love you because you saved me,” Sam mumbled, cheek pressed against Dean’s chest. “You saved me, and then I fell in love. I know what the difference is.”

“Sam,” Dean tried to protest again, but it sounded weak, even to his own ears. Sam took in a deep breath and pulled away just enough to look up at Dean. His eyes were bright, watery and full enough to burst, his lashes dew-dropped. He looked something out of a movie, one of the ones Dean insisted he never watched—Sam looked perfect, so achingly beautiful that Dean could do nothing but hold his breath.

“Tomorrow’s our last day,” Sam said, voice wavering. “Don’t push me away, Dean, please. I’m here. Be here with me.”

Dean took Sam’s face in his hands and kissed him.

It didn’t last long. It was hardly more than the kisses they’d shared in the past, but Dean could tell—this felt right. Being here with Sam, holding him and kissing him and being close—being vulnerable and open with him—was right. This was what he’d been craving since their first kiss, what he’d damned himself for on their second; this was what he would gladly stake his heart on just to have again.

Sam let out a soft noise when Dean pulled away. Dean got to watch the flutter-open of his eyes, the way his face looked a little pinched, like it hurt to stop. His thumbs ran over Sam’s cheeks, and thin fingers wrapped around his wrists, holding on like a lifeline.

“Dean,” Sam sighed sweetly; Dean could die hearing it and be happy. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Dean murmured back. Sam pushed up on his toes and pressed another soft kiss against his lips.

“Saving me,” he answered.

The sun was long gone, the chill was setting in, and Dean held onto Sam like he’d finally remembered how to swim again. He wanted to say the words back, because hell if it wasn’t true, but he couldn’t find his voice, the words choked in his throat. Sam looked like he understood, either way—his expression softened, fingers reaching up to press against Dean’s jaw, thumbs caressing his stubble like something out of a dream.

“Don’t say no,” Sam warned, and Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t say no to what?” he asked, pitch tilting upwards teasingly.

“I want you to fuck me,” Sam responded, and Dean pulled away, chest constricting painfully even as heat swarmed into the pit of his stomach.

“Sam—”

“Please,” Sam pleaded. His fingers found Dean’s face again, and Dean was weak to resist. “I don’t want anyone else. I feel safe with you. Please.”

Dean faltered, eyes shifting away, even as he felt his resolve dying.

Then, like a death knell, Sam peered into his eyes, nervous and shy and embarrassed but brave, his voice trembling just as much as the rest of him. “Don’t you want me?” he asked, teeth biting down on his lower lip.

Dean thought maybe he should’ve put up more of a fight for appearance’s sake, but if there was something he knew intimately about himself, it was that he was utterly and completely fucked whenever it came to Sam.

When he nodded, Dean realized that he didn’t really mind. 

———

Dean’s entire body was buzzing, his fingers itching against the room key as he slotted it in and unlocked the door. Sam was warm where he leaned into his back—Sam was always warm, was always running hot. He pushed open the door and held it wide, letting Sam enter before him. Dean took his time dead-bolting the door, taking in a deep breath before he turned around to face Sam.

Sam stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands clutching the hem on the jacket he’d borrowed the first day they’d met. It was big on him; Dean’s throat went dry when he thought about how small Sam was going to be when he was undressed. 

“Um,” Sam started, teeth nervously chewing up his bottom lip, “I’ve never—I’ve never done this before. Have—had sex, I mean, I haven’t—“ Sam took in a deep breath. Dean suddenly felt guilt and shame swarm his lower stomach, and he licked his lips nervously. 

“Listen, Sammy, if you aren’t ready—“ Dean interrupted, and Sam quickly shook his head, taking a half-step forward. 

“No, I—I wanna do this,” he said immediately. Dean finally found it in him to move, and he moved towards Sam; Sam took another half-step closer to bridge the gap. Sam’s hand reached up and pressed over Dean’s heart; Dean wondered if Sam could feel how fast it was beating. “I just… need you to show me what to do,” Sam whispered.

_ Fuck yes _ , Dean could do that.

His hands reached out and pressed against the sides of Sam’s throat, thumbs slotting underneath his jaw to tilt his head upwards. Sam stared back, and Dean could feel the way his breath hitched—if he wasn’t hard yet, seeing Sam’s pink-flushed cheeks and bitten lower lip this close was definitely getting him there. 

“Close—” Dean tried, voice cracking; he cleared it and tried again. “Close your eyes, Sammy.”

Sam’s lips twitched upwards into a small smile before it smoothed away, gently puckered in anticipation as he let his eyes flutter shut, and  _ shit, _ Sam had long eyelashes. “I know how to kiss, Dean,” he teased. Even so, Sam’s fingers were shaking when they came up to rest on his wrists.

“Thought you needed me to show you what to do,” Dean murmured, and cut off Sam’s next words when he pressed their mouths together softly. The breathy sigh that Sam parted against his lips made his chest ache, and his tongue darted out, swiping just inside Sam’s lip—fingers tightened around his wrists and Sam’s tongue met his own and Dean felt all the heat in his body swarm down to the pit of his stomach.

This was happening. Dean pushed his fingers back through Sam’s hair and deepened the kiss, and Sam let out a soft moan into his mouth. This was it, this was happening,  _ he and Sam were really going to _ —and Dean moved to wrap an arm around Sam’s waist, dragging him closer, their chests pressed flush against each other. Sam’s head drew back, their eyes meeting, before Sam wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck and pulled him in again.

So close, Dean could almost feel Sam’s heart beating against his own.

“Bed,” Dean said in between kisses, Sam’s breathy, huffed-out moans and the wet sounds of their mouths punctuating the quiet of the room. “Sammy, the bed.”

Sam pressed another kiss to his lower lip, sucking it in between his teeth and tearing a groan out of Dean’s throat before he pulled away. Dean’s brain was slow, a haze of arousal that felt like flashfire heat throughout his entire body, and their eyes locked as Sam toed off his shoes and shook off the jacket, letting it fall onto the floor. Sam played with the hem of his shirt, breaking the stare to glance down at his fingers before nervously looking back up.

“Should I—?” he started, and Dean shook his head, taking quick steps forward.

“Let me,” Dean offered, and Sam’s hands fell away as he nodded hesitantly. 

Dean thought maybe his hands were shaking harder than Sam’s were, but Sam said nothing about it; Dean steeled his nerves and lifted the shirt a little, just enough to expose a soft, smooth belly. “Lift your arms for me?” he asked, and Sam complied. Dean tugged the shirt off, letting it drop away to the side as his hands smoothed over Sam’s waist, eyes dragging down the bare chest. Small and delicate, with small dark moles dotted down fair skin that had lost the summer-heat tan still lingering on Sam’s arms. The last time Dean had seen this had been their first day together; he never thought he’d see it again.

_ Fuck _ , Sammy was pretty.

“God, Sammy,” Dean breathed out. Fingers trembled against his forearms, and Sam shut his eyes tight. “Jesus, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

“I’m not,” Sam croaked out, startled and sudden. “All these scars—”

“You’re beautiful,” Dean said again, and Sam’s eyes opened slowly, peering up at Dean through thick bangs. “Fuck, Sammy, you have no idea how good you look.”

Sam leaned forward, burying his face into Dean’s shirt; it was so fucking endearing that Dean had to chuckle, head bowing to press a kiss against the top of Sam’s hair. “Says you,” Sam mumbled into his chest.

“Yeah,” Dean answered, “says me.”

Sam tilted his chin up, coaxed out of his hiding place—Dean watched as Sam’s eyes flicked downwards before they met Dean’s confidently. “Kiss me,” Sam asserted, and Dean relented.

His fingers traced over Sam’s sides—down each notching rib, mapping out across his thin waist and down to his equally thin hips—before his thumbs massaged over Sam’s hip bones. He was small— _ so fucking small,  _ just like he thought he would be, and Dean allowed one last surge of guilt to settle in his mouth before Sam’s tongue chased it away. 

“Now take off your shirt,” Sam whispered into his mouth, and Dean laughed again, the sound full in his throat.

“Sammy, I get all tingly when you take control like that,” Dean teased, nipping at Sam’s lower lip, and Sam let out a whine, fingers dropping to tug at the hem of Dean’s shirt. 

“Please,” Sam all but begged, and Dean’s dick throbbed against the zipper of his jeans, “I wanna see you, too.”

Dean’s mouth felt dry when he nodded numbly—Sam took a step back, stumbling a bit before righting himself against the bed frame. Dean grabbed the hem of his shirt and drew it off, balling it up and tossing it to the side. 

Sam’s silent stare dragged on, the seconds ticking by without a response, and Dean’s brows furrowed, suddenly self-conscious. He cleared his throat nervously and brought an arm up to cross his chest. “You, uh, gonna say somethin’? Listen, I know I’m not in the best shape, but—”

“No—” Sam said quickly; he took a half-step forward, hand reaching out but falling modestly onto Dean’s forearm. Sam’s cheeks were flushed, lip bitten and eyes avoiding his own, and Dean was suddenly struck with the realization that Sam was shy. A hand came out to weakly punch the center of his chest, fingers uncurling to press hesitantly against his skin. “Jesus, Dean, why do you have to be so hot?”

Dean let out a sudden burst of laughter, one that was followed by Sam’s soft, nervous giggle. His hands dropped, falling onto Sam’s thin hips. “I guess we both got good taste, huh?”

“Oh, gross,” Sam said, fingers reaching up to press against Dean’s grinning lips, “does anyone actually fall for that line?”

Dean chose not to answer in favor of nipping at Sam’s fingertips; when Sam pulled his hands away, Dean leaned in, pushing into a soft kiss. It didn’t take long for Sam to deepen the kiss, his arms moving to wrap around Dean’s neck and tug him down.

“Dean,” Sam whispered once they pulled away, “bed.”

Dean nearly tripped out of his jeans, stumbling forward a bit and stopped by Sam’s hands on his shoulders keeping him upright as Sam let out an airy little laugh that made Dean’s heart tug hard in his chest. Sam moved to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing his own oversized jeans off his thin hips to pool on the floor; once his bare legs were on display, he modestly brought his knees to his chest, coy smile tugging at his lips.

“Lemme see, Sammy,” Dean murmured, stepping forward and placing his hands over Sam’s knees. Sam let them drop open, and Dean slid his hands down, forcing his thighs further apart and revealing soft skin and mile-long legs. He cursed low, under his breath, and then again when he felt fingers tug down his boxer-briefs in one sudden motion.

“Oh, God,” Sam breathed out, and Dean dragged his eyes up from the pink of Sam’s inner thighs to his flushed, wide-eyed expression, “you’re so much bigger than I thought you were gonna be.”

There really was no need for Dean to go on with the way the praise shot straight through his fucking chest down to the base of his dick. If he died right then, he was pretty fucking sure he’d have no regrets, except maybe croaking it before he actually got to fuck Sam. “Jesus, Sammy, you can’t just say shit like that.”

“Shit like what?” Sam asked innocently. Dean could feel Sam’s hands—both of them, Sam needed  _ both of them _ to wrap all the way around—around his dick, and then the lightest touch against the tip of it. “Like how your cock is so thick, I don’t know if I can get it in my mouth?”

“You’re fucking evil,” Dean groaned, watching as Sam pressed a kiss against the head of his cock. “You know that?”

“Mm-hmm,” Sam hummed, lapping up the bead of precum gathering at the head, and suckled softly, eyes flicking up to watch Dean’s expression. 

Fucking cocktease. Dean thought maybe he really was going to die before he ever got to fuck Sam. Reaching out, he pressed his hand against Sam’s hair, running through with his fingers before taking a gentle fistful. “You’re gonna be good and take it all the way down for me though, right?” he asked, and Sam moaned around the head, nodding. “But you can work your way up to that, baby.”

Sam let out a choked-out whimper, surprising himself with the noise as he pulled away from Dean’s cock with an audible pop. His lower lip was already spit-shiny, mouth parted open as he stared at Dean, before he took his pout between his teeth, suddenly shy. “You gonna teach me?” he asked sweetly.

“Yeah, honey,” Dean answered, and Sam let out a soft, wrecked moan at the pet name, “gonna teach you a lot of things. Up on the bed.”

Sam scrambled backward, moving to sit up on his knees patiently as Dean climbed onto the bed. He settled down against the headboard, making himself comfortable as he reached down and yanked his underwear off the rest of the way, tossing it to the side. Sam’s hand immediately took back to wrapping around his cock and stroking slowly, and Dean let out a little hiss before slapping the top of his thigh.

“C’mere, Sammy,” Dean called, and it took Sam a moment before he realized what Dean was asking for.

Shyly, biting his lower lip, Sam lowered himself onto Dean’s lap, cotton panties stretching across his ass as he spread his thighs around Dean’s hips. Dean’s hands moved to Sam’s waist, holding him steady as he guided him into a slow rock, his cock pressed up against the soft curve of virgin ass.

“Show me how to make it feel good, Dean,” Sam whispered, pleading. Dean groaned quietly when Sam rocked his ass across his hard dick. “Isn’t that what big brothers are for?”

_ Fuck _ . It was so much hotter than it had the right to be, and Dean grabbed the back of Sam’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. He urged Sam to dig his hips in deeper, reaching down to pull Sam’s panties to the side so he could slot his dick between his cheeks. Sam let out a broken whimper at the feeling, mouth falling open as he panted. “Need big brother to show you how to give up that ass?” Dean asked, and Sam moaned into his mouth. “Gonna fuck you so good, baby, gonna—”

“Are you gonna finger me? Are you gonna open me up so I can take your dick?” Sam whispered, and Dean leaned his forehead against Sam’s shoulder, letting out a soft groan as Sam grinded down against him again.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean said, and Sam’s teasing little smile stole the rest of his voice. He smacked the inside of Sam’s thigh lightly, and Sam let out a little yelp. “Just for that, I’m gonna eat you out.”

“Oh my God,” Sam warbled; Sam’s cock twitched where it was pressed against Dean’s stomach, drooling out a drop of precum and wetting the front of his panties. “ _ Oh my God _ .”

In one easy motion, Dean flipped Sam over onto his back, crawling in between Sam’s spread legs. He wasted no time in removing Sam’s panties, his breath hitching at the sight of a pretty pink cock and bare skin. “Fucking Christ,” Dean cursed, thumb running over Sam’s lower stomach, “baby, you’re bare.”

“Shuddup,” Sam warbled, hands reaching out to cover his face as his knees knocked together. Dean grinned wolfishly and pulled his thighs apart again. “You’re such a jerk.”

“It looks so hot,” Dean reassured, and Sam peered through his fingers. “You’re so fucking perfect, Sammy.”

Sam leaned up to press a petulant little kiss against his lips, and Dean let out a low chuckle against it.

The sounds Sam made when he was getting eaten out should have been fucking illegal. The whimpers and soft sighs, the way his thighs trembled and his fingers dug into Dean’s hair; Dean had to keep himself from fucking the bedsheets with how achingly hard he was. 

With his tongue sunk deep into Sam’s ass, chin sloppy with spit, Dean reached up to wrap a hand around Sam’s cock, and Sam came immediately.

“Fuck—fuck fuck fuck—Dean—” Sam panted, letting out a long and broken moan as his back arched, toes digging into the mattress.

Dean groaned, head popping up to watch Sam’s flushed cheeks and heavy panting, the way his eyes were unfocused as he struggled for coherency.  _ Fuck _ , it was the hottest thing Dean had ever seen—he pressed the heel of his palm into his cock, feeling it jump desperately against his stomach in need of something to fuck. “You already came for me, baby?” he asked, voice low and rough.

Sam let out a soft huff of a giggle, reaching out to grab his face and pull him into a kiss, and Dean went gladly. “Fuck me,” Sam whispered against his lips, “I wanna come again with you inside me.”

Dean made quick work out of falling out of bed to grab a condom out of his jeans; his cock bounced as he grabbed a small bottle of lube from his jacket pocket where he’d snuck it in on the ride over. With practiced hands, he rolled the condom on, slicking up his cock as he returned to the bed.

“All this foresight for me?” Sam asked, eyes bright and smile teasing, when Dean situated himself between Sam’s thighs.

“Told you I wanna make you feel good, didn’t I, sweetheart?” Dean cooed back. When Sam opened his mouth to retort, Dean pressed the head of his cock against his spit-slick hole, and Sam bit it down to muffle a moan, eyes fluttering shut. “That shut you up, huh?”

“Jerk,” Sam moaned, and Dean pushed inside just to shut him up again. 

It was slow-going, a tight fit—Dean let out a shuddered breath when he reminded himself that Sam was a virgin—no longer a virgin now, not with Dean's cock in him—and Jesus fucking Christ this was  _happening_ —

“How does it feel?” Dean murmured, fisting the sheets beside Sam’s head as he hissed, inching his cock into Sam’s tight hole.

“Hurts,” Sam answered truthfully. He reached up, arms open wide, and Dean leaned into the hug, Sam’s arms wrapping girlfriend-tight around his neck. “You’re so big, fuck.”

“I’ll go slow,” Dean offered, and Sam shook his head in the crook of Dean’s shoulder. Dean felt lips against his skin, and Sam’s voice came out a little muffled.

“No,” Sam whimpered, and Dean’s hips stuttered at the sound—Sam let out a keening whine, fingertips digging into the muscle of his back. “No, it’s good, it’s so good, fuck me, please, I need it.”

“Yeah,” Dean rasped. He started fucking Sam in short, quick bursts. “Yeah, baby brother—let me—”

Sam’s wrecked noise at the nickname was almost enough to make him come.

Dean leaned back, hands moving to grip Sam’s thighs; once he managed to seat his entire cock in Sam, he let out a low growl and started fucking him deep, fingertips digging into Sam’s flesh as he fucked him. Sam’s whimpers and whines became loud, obscene moans, pulled from his throat like Dean had a tight grip around the sound. 

“Again, Dean—I’m gonna—please, please, please, oh fuck,” Sam babbled, hands flying out to grip Dean’s forearms, and Dean railed into him, one palm falling flat on the mattress for leverage as he reached between Sam’s thighs and jerked him off, quick and dirty. Sam’s eyes flew open, back arching upwards as he came, body spasming as Dean jerked him through it until Sam was a panting mess, hands moving to still his strokes.

Sam whined, and Dean leaned down to press reassuring kisses against his lower lip. “Let me use this tight fucking hole, baby,” Dean murmured, and Sam moaned hotly into his mouth, arms languid and slow as they wrapped loosely around his neck. Dean dropped his head, nosing into the crook of Sam’s throat and licking a long line up the sweat-salted skin. “So good for me, Sammy, so fucking hot—”

“I wanna taste it,” Sam breathed out, voice sex-drunk and words lazy. “I wanna swallow your cum, please, I need it.”

_ Jesus Fucking Christ _ , Dean was in love, he was so in love he felt like he was going to burst just from seeing Sam’s fucked-out expression. He pulled out, moving to sit on his haunches as he tore off the condom, moving to kneel beside Sam’s head.

“Open up,” Dean instructed, biting down on his lower lip, and Sam moaned, popping his mouth open. His hand reached out and replaced Dean’s, stroking fast and tight, tongue pressed to the head of his cock. Thighs tensing, a groan shuddering its way out of his throat, and Dean came, cum splattering over Sam’s tongue; he let out a heavy-panted moan when Sam’s mouth closed around the head of his cock, milking him oversensitive and dry.

Dean collapsed onto the bed, reaching over to tug Sam close.

“Good?” Sam asked, settling on his chest. Dean hummed, body humming with that post-orgasmic warmth, and Sam pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Was that good for you?”

Dean let out a breath of laughter, turning his head to look at Sam. One hand soothed down Sam’s spine and the other came up to tuck hair away from Sam’s sweat-sticky forehead. “Yeah, Sammy. I can pretty confidently say you’re the best I’ve ever had,” he said, playful smile twitching at the corners of his lips. 

The pleased, sweet smile that Sam rewarded him with nearly broke Dean’s fucking heart. 

_ I don’t want you to go _ , Dean thought, pulling Sam closer and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. He closed his eyes tight and took in a deep breath.  _ I don’t want to let you go. _

———

Twelve hours until Santa Monica, and it was painfully sober in the truck.

Dean dropped off the cargo around noontime, apologizing for the lateness and receiving a heavy dock in his pay for it. It was difficult for him to care about either fact—he climbed back into the truck, several tons lighter, and let out a long, steady breath at the thought of their last leg. 

Sam tried to keep up the conversation, voice cheery and light; it hurt just to hear it, to hear the strain behind it and see the forced smiles on Sam’s face. He missed the open, genuine glee, the one that split Sam’s mouth in unbridled joy and left his cheeks pink, made him breathless. He missed the easy silence, the one that wasn’t tense with things left unsaid like it was now—he missed the soft intimacy of Sam half-mumbling words to songs and his quiet snores.

He missed Sam, and Sam wasn’t even gone yet.

It was well past sunset by the time Dean reached Santa Monica. He’d driven as close to the pier as he could get, parked ocean-facing, and stared out into the distance. Sam shifted nervously beside him, and it took a long moment before he reached out and placed a small hand over Dean’s forearm.

“Thanks for the ride,” Sam finally said, breaking the silence. Dean sucked in a sharp breath. It felt like it cut up his insides. “Guess I owe you that blowjob now, huh?”

Dean let out a huff of laughter, eyes crinkling in the corners as he turned to face Sam. His heart split neatly in half at the expression on Sam’s face—the way he tried so hard to hold back tears, to keep his cheeks dimpled.

Dean loved Sam’s dimples. 

Dean loved so much of Sam, and the reality of it was crushing his lungs.

“I’ll stay and wait for your aunt with you,” Dean offered. Sam’s brows furrowed, pinching in the center, and Dean wanted to reach over and smooth the sight away. “So you’re not here alone.”

“It’s fine, Dean, you don’t need to—”

“It’s alright, I don’t mind—”

“Really, Dean, it could—it could be a while before she gets here, and I don’t want to hold you up—”

“Seriously, Sam, I’d rather know you got home safe—”

“I don’t have an aunt!” Sam burst out.

Dean felt dizzy, knocked out of breath so suddenly that he couldn’t do much but blink. “What?”

“I don’t have an aunt. I don’t—have any relatives, not any that won’t just send me back to my dad. I just—” Sam sucked in a deep breath. He was trembling, every part of him, vibrating from his chest like he couldn’t contain the scared little boy he tried hard not to show. Dean wanted to hold him until he stopped shaking. “I just wanted to get away. I’m sorry I lied to you.”

Dean was quiet for a moment. Twenty-one hundred miles, truck empty and carrying nothing but two wayward, lonely souls. It had only been seven days—it felt like a lifetime, now, his memories filled to the brim of the scrawny kid in his passenger seat, like he’d known him his whole life. He watched Sam’s downturned face, wondering when he became more than just a kid he picked up. Somewhere between brothers and lovers—the line was blurred, and he was unable to pin it down. Maybe it was both. Maybe he was twisted for even thinking it in those terms, but that felt right, slotted somewhere safe in his chest. 

It felt like static giving way to unfamiliar clarity. He was young—God knew Sam was, too. There was so much road in front of them, enough to keep them driving until their tires burnt out on the black asphalt. An endless supply of second-rate attractions and tourist ghost haunts, skeevy dive bars and cheap motel rooms with squeaky bedframes, diners with apple pie enough for two. And maybe one day, he would hang up his keys for something smaller, made for blood that ran hot and always ready for the flash of Midwest small towns in rearview mirrors. Maybe one day, they would find enough peace to settle down in something respectable, as much as the idea made him laugh. 

Maybe. Or maybe in a year, Sam would just be a good memory, a time when Dean was more than just a boy who didn’t know how to do anything but run. But that was the beauty of it, wasn't it? Not knowing what the future held? Sam gave him hope where he had found none for so long. Sam made him believe he had more than just one option left in his bones.

“I’m heading out to South Dakota,” Dean said finally, looking ahead through to the horizon. Ocean just beyond, three thousand miles of land stretching behind. “Think you might have an aunt there?”

He turned back to Sam, faint smile dawning. Sam stared back, stunned, before he beamed; the sight of it dragged Dean’s heart into his throat, and he grinned back. 

“Yeah, I think I just might,” Sam replied, and Dean put the truck into drive.


End file.
